


With Fire, With Grace (Con Fuoco, Con Grazia)

by LadyOfCythera



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Clarke Griffin, Clexa, F/F, POV Third Person, Slow Burn Clarke Griffin/Lexa, violinist lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 182,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfCythera/pseuds/LadyOfCythera
Summary: Lexa, an exceptional violinist plucked from Washington DC and dropped into the London Arcadian Academy of the Arts, finds herself entangled in difficult dynamics with an overconfident artist. The artist is exactly the sort of girl Lexa can't afford to make friends with. Not with that charm. Not with that smile.The candle burns slow, but hot all the same.'"In a place like this, you might find that you need friends. It’s all rosy, until it’s not.”Evidently, the brunette standing stationary beside Clarke thought nothing to her advice and answered dismissively, her voice emanating as much warmth as a solitary stone, “I’ll pass.”“Are you sure?” It was her final offer.As if to slap her in the face, the young woman was silent, the cold intensity of her stare battling with the fire in Clarke’s. After a moment of unbearable friction, the blonde just nodded and pushed away from the bar, “Message received. You have a good evening, won’t you?”Hardly able to stop herself from suppressing the fury brimming on the back of her tongue, Clarke rested a hand lightly on Anya’s arm as she walked by, “I hope her talent truly is exceptional. It will need to be.”'
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 427
Kudos: 957





	1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.

_Everybody has their own idea of love. The way it makes them think, the way it makes them feel, and the way it makes them behave. How it can change somebody’s entire concept of life; for better or for worse. How love can caress one’s soul with deft fingers, or how it can choke that very same soul with an iron fist._

_But, mostly, how something so defying, so powerful and profound, can be so destructive. How love can make a person feel invincible one moment and then, in the next, tear you down until you are nothing but a shattered, distorted image of yourself. The pieces of you are there, but they somehow don’t fit together anymore._

_And the only way to fix it is to sweep up the fragments and dispose of them. Lock them away. Hide from them. This is so you never have to look at the parts of you that were once beautiful, once cherished, but are now broken and obsolete._

_Love is dangerous._

_Love is weakness._

.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.

The first time she fell in love, Lexa was four years old. She had never been a particularly vocal or social child and rather spent most of her time observing than interacting. So, to encourage her to make friends and experience the excitement life had to offer for such young children, her mother took her to the local park. The young child seemed dubious about the slides and the climbing frame; she even had her reservations about the less cultured children charging about the span of the playground.

However, simply to appease her mother, the young girl braced herself and positioned her small frame on the swings. Then, over the sounds of the other children squealing, laughing and crying, she heard an altogether new sound.

It could have been a song sung by a tormented ghost – haunting, gentle and sorrowful.

The tone possessed her; entranced her.

The young girl slid off the swing and followed the sound until she found the source.

Standing by the entrance to the park was a woman holding, in her arms, a violin.

She stared, wide-eyed at the street performer, everything else fading into the background. Including the shouts of her mother. That was when she felt it. An unbreakable desire and a deep longing to be able to become one with the music – to hear it, create it, play it.

She could recall, following a verbal reprimand, that her mother had taken her home. Not because she was still in trouble, but because she had something of greater interest for her child than the playground.

A violin.

She did not know at that age that her mother had been a highly skilled violinist, so close to attaining worldwide recognition, but had given up her career and lifelong passion to raise a daughter she never intended to have, her success quickly falling by the wayside.

But, for the young girl, she had found love.

And she nurtured it, treasured it, and perfected it.

When her mother died far too soon, leaving her with only an aunt, if she could even be called that, the young girl swore she would make music her legacy. For herself. And for her mother.

And never, _never_ , would anybody get in her way.

.::.::.::.::.::.

The Arcadian Academy of the Arts ( _or Arcadia_ ), the first complex of its kind, was situated in central London, overlooking the Thames. Founded by Mathis Jakob Griffin, a well-renowned musician and composer in his era, Arcadia attracted the rawest of talent from all over the world. Although not initially built with the purpose of being a university, it offered extensive and professional academic pursual for scholars; music, dance, art, drama. There was an almost consistent hum of activity in the complex; if it wasn’t a theatre production or an art exhibition, it was musical performance or a festival. For those with less interest in competition, special events or academia, members had access to tutors, practice rooms and resources to fulfil any, and all, recreational desires. There was something for everyone.

Of course, everyone who had enough money to pay for it. The latter statement was absent from the pamphlet, but common knowledge all the same.

Lexa Woods was dwarfed by the parapets of stone, their stature far greater than could be depicted on a simple image in a prospectus manual. Gaining a membership for such a prominent community within the arts had been a right reserved for those with money; those who had been bred for this lifestyle; those who knew somebody who knew _somebody_. That’s how it had been for decades upon decades. Even standing outside the entryway to Arcadia was an experience attainable only in the furthest reaches of her dreams, until now. Now, the whole thing made her feel like nothing more than a ghost – a phantom. It wasn’t that she lacked money altogether but, to speak frankly, she was no elitist. Rendered invisible simply by comparison to those in her immediate proximity, Lexa wondered, not for the first or the last time, whether this had all been a drastic mistake. Was it really supposed to be her standing in the courtyard to the world’s most prestigious academy? Her gaze fell upon a huge slate-grey clockface situated proudly above the main entrance, prompting her that she was here on a schedule. She had 47 minutes to complete her registration and find her newly assigned tutor – tasks that may have been executed far easier had she possessed the slightest idea where she was going. In stark contrast to feeling invisible only seconds before, Lexa caught herself feeling quite conspicuous as the only individual that seemed incapable of deciding exactly where she was heading. Usually, as somebody who prided herself on precision, the latter prospect had never been an issue.

Deciding the most sensible option would be to ask at the reception, Lexa stepped into the atrium of the building before her, realising very quickly that there was no reception within her immediate vicinity. The long corridors swallowed her as she weaved her way between groups of people. She was certain it shouldn’t have been this difficult to find the registration desks – surely.

It was highly likely that she was lost.

“You look lost.”

Lexa turned at the sound of an American voice, finding herself face to face with a young woman. She recalled that the voice was one easily picked out of a crowd – particularly in England. She was wearing an amused smile as she threw her long blonde hair over her shoulders. To avoid embarrassing herself, Lexa bypassed the remark and continued walking straight forwards, making no attempt to interact with the girl. She was _exactly_ the sort of girl Lexa couldn’t afford to make friends with. Not with a charm like that. Not with a smile like that.

“You’re going the wrong way.” The blonde called out, cheerfully.

Lexa found this remark particularly irritating, and she glanced behind her, “Not that I doubt your omniscience, but…”

“But you doubt my omniscience.”

Maybe it was the slow-building anxiety currently steeping her stomach with nausea, or maybe it was the unsolicited interaction from the young woman, but Lexa found her muscles grasping at her bones in rising agitation.

36 minutes.

She didn’t have time for this.

“Excuse me, I have to go.” Lexa attempted to push on through the corridor, deciding it would be easier to find an official member of staff to speak with rather than the young woman currently grinning at her predicament like a Cheshire cat.

“Go where? To register?”

Lexa hesitated, choosing to turn and carefully study the girl who was idling down the corridor behind her, seemingly under no time constraints herself. She knew she was being rude, but social conduct had never been one of her strong-suits. The concept of ‘friends’ wasn’t one she was especially familiar with. She wasn’t here to like or be liked. Plus, there was something about this one’s self-confidence that irked her.

“Okay…” The girl raised an eyebrow, “… Not that I’m making any more assumptions. But, if you _were_ hypothetically going to register, then you might theoretically go back down the corridor, take a right. And, you know, maybe take a left.” She then lowered her voice, conspiratorially, “And then another right.”

Lexa simply inclined her head, lips pursed, and proceeded in the suggested direction, despite the protests of her pride. She heard the blonde laugh quietly to herself as she walked away. Deciding she didn’t have the time to continue being frustrated with the world and its inhabitants, she focused instead on not making herself later than she already was.

Thankfully, within 28 minutes, Lexa had managed to register and go on to memorise a good portion of the grounds on her way to meet her new tutor. The rest of the map would have to wait until she was safely back within her accommodation that evening.

Scanning her fob across the reader, Lexa pushed open a huge polished door and stepped inside. A frosted glass door at the end of the corridor awaited her attention, a familiar name printed in legible bold font at eye-level.

With a steady hand, Lexa rapped her knuckles against the door, stepping back to be greeted. The door opened after a few moments and a woman stood before her, opposing her every expectation.

“Hello, I believe I have an appointment at half past eleven with Ms Crainn.”

The woman was tall, a similar stature to Lexa herself, dark blonde hair piled atop her head. Her eyes, sharp and alert scanned the young woman before her with refined interest, and in a well-spoken English accent, she replied, “Yes. I believe you do.”

Had Lexa been the sort to feel easily intimidated by others, she might have been inclined to shrink back a step or two. But, as it was, Lexa had been exposed to scrutiny more times than she’d care to admit. Right when Lexa started to consider the possibility that the lady examining her at present was going to turn her away, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm, “You might as well come in. And you might as well call me Anya. I don’t do formalities.”

“Thank you.” Despite her natural aversion to unnecessary social connection, Lexa gave herself a gentle reminder that the frightening woman identifying herself as Anya was going to help her shape her entire future. This was a connection she would be required to forge, and she planned on doing whatever was necessary.

“Alexandra Woods, is it?”

“Lexa.” She corrected.

Anya nodded knowingly, dropping down into a comfortable beanbag and indicating for Lexa to resume the beanbag opposite, “Right, but presumably you’re related to _the_ Alexandra Woods?”

“She was my mother.”

“And your teacher, too?”

Lexa inclined her head.

“I know a little of your background, Lexa.” Thus far, Anya gave no pretences that she was anything other than direct. Lexa said nothing and simply counted the slow seconds of silence until Anya finally spoke again. “I know you haven’t bought your way in here. Your mother gave up her entire career to raise you alone. As I understand it, you have a gift like she did.”

If Lexa was sensitive to the subject of her deceased mother, she certainly didn’t betray it.

“I suppose that’s subjective.”

“Is it?” Anya seemed surprised, offended, even.

“I believe so.”

“Either you’re just being modest, or you don’t think you deserve to be here.” Her tone was clipped; harsh. The temperature dropped. Again, Lexa said nothing.

“Whether subjective, or not, you were selected by Jake Griffin himself to attend Arcadia. Do you think perhaps he was mistaken? Do you think maybe he intended for somebody else to come here instead of you? Could it be that Jake Griffin did _not_ hear you playing that evening in Washington? That he heard somebody else and mistook them for you?” There was something fierce in Anya’s eyes as she leaned forwards, her words pricking Lexa’s skin like hot needles, “If you think that there’s even the _slightest_ possibility you don’t deserve to be here, you can walk your arse right out of my office and _never_ come back.”

Lips parted, ever so slightly, Lexa inhaled. Her new tutor certainly knew how to make an impression.

“So,” Anya steadied herself with a slow breath, tone smoothing like silk, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to consider your answer very carefully, okay? Do you, Lexa Woods, believe you deserve to be here?”

The light brown intensity behind Anya’s stare could have made Lexa fold. For a moment, she let the words wash over her. Did she deserve to be here?

Did she?

Jake Griffin, the head of the entire complex – grandson of _the_ Mathis Jakob Griffin, had heard her music. By a remarkable miracle, he had heard her perform back in Washington DC at some minimalistic concert, and had actively sought her out to offer her a membership in Arcadia. Why? Because he believed she deserved it. Did Lexa believe it, though? Lexa had very little in terms of wealth. She didn’t run in the same circles as the other scholars and attendees.

She had, however, dedicated her entire life to music. She had practiced until her fingers were blistered to the bone, until her arm was aching to the point where she could barely lift it anymore, and even then, she hadn’t stopped. She had perhaps worked harder than the majority of people in the entire academy, and she was ready for her music to be heard.

She was ready to begin her legacy.

“Yes.” She concluded, resolutely, “I do.”

Anya’s expression gave away very little of her thoughts at Lexa’s response. She only inclined her head, almost imperceptibly, her fingertips pressing together like temple spires.

“There are people here who will tell you that you do not deserve this, Lexa. There are people who will look down on you. Some may even pose as your friends. Amongst the pleasantries of a place like this, you will find it holds a darkness that can all but consume you if you let it. You are here to receive tuition and push yourself to your absolute limits. You are here because you deserve to be, but nobody else is going to tell you that, and out of everybody here, you are going to have to work the hardest to prove it.”

Lexa caught herself absorbing every word as though they were revelations.

“You speak as if you have experienced that yourself.” She observed, her eyes meeting Anya’s without shame.

Then, to Lexa’s surprise, a catlike grin worked its way onto her new tutor’s mouth, “Yes. Jake Griffin found me, too.”

.::.::.::.::.::.

Lexa wasted very little time in familiarising herself with the areas of the academy that would be of the most use for her. Her accommodation was grander than she could’ve imagined, and the knowledge that she was paying for it at a discounted price (a pleasant perk of first year membership) was enough to make her sick. She could afford the expense of living, just about, but if she was to remain an attendee of Arcadia, she would have to seek other lodgings outside of the main complex once the year was over. She could barely imagine the concept of paying the cost of membership on top of everything else – internally, she thanked Jake Griffin for behaving as if she was doing _him_ the favour by accepting a paid-for space within Arcadia. Fortunately, her place was within a 10-minute walking distance of the music sector, which made life extensively easier.

Lexa quickly discovered her first haunt once exiting Anya’s office block. The Soundhouse, a huge cubic building with an exterior that resembled a cushioned black quilt, possessed numerous soundproofed practice rooms with varying equipment set up for each group of users; pianos, microphones, amplifiers, drumkits, et cetera. Lexa would go on to favour the room she and Anya were to have their lessons in; situated on the top floor, a room with glossy wooden flooring, a sleek grand piano so well-kempt that Lexa could see her reflection in the polish, and the stretch of a flawlessly mirrored wall. The acoustics were enough to push a wave of shivers down her spine when she so much as plucked a single string.

The second building Lexa familiarised herself with was one halfway between the Soundhouse and the Royal Victoria Music Hall (which soon became the third building she befriended). The Orion Arms. A devastatingly important establishment, if not a little overpriced on weekends.

The final area she became familiar with was The Information Commons, or more regularly referred to as the IC. Essentially, it was just a library, and a very large one at that. She wondered why the British insisted on such fanciful names; what was wrong with just calling the damn thing “The Library”? 

When she wasn’t in the aforementioned edifices, she would be exploring the city streets or mapping out new routes to run. Generally speaking, the largest portion of her time was spent in the practice rooms. Everything else was secondary, tertiary, even.

By the end of her first fortnight, Lexa efficiently picked up a favourable routine. She would meet with Anya thrice weekly, and would access the practice rooms late at night to avoid seeing other bodies anywhere near her. Thus far, she had done well to avoid forming any sort of connections with anybody aside from Anya. She was content for her friendships to extend no further beyond the reaches of holding a door open for somebody walking behind her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And that would be all.

And that would be something Lexa was more than happy with.

For now, at least.

Until something, or somebody, threw an inevitable spanner into the works.

.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.

_Hatred is a concept often so sweetly construed as romantic; dramatic; Shakespearean. One could argue along those lines that hatred is a vital component of love – after all, without experiencing one, would you be able to feel the equalling impact of the other? To love somebody so powerfully, and to be betrayed as such, could lead a broken heart to hate. But at least that soul has loved, first._

_Or, it may be argued, to feel hatred in its most rudimentary state, stripped bare down to the very core of its true nature, is to disconnect entirely from the purity of love. Surely, the two could never be cohabitants in one heart. How could a person give so compassionately to one and wish for death upon another?_

_Two sides to the same coin?_

_One Yin, one Yang?_

_Perhaps one may hate in the name of love; a barrier; protection. Save yourself from loving the wrong thing, the wrong person. Turn the sweet to bitter, vow to destroy that which has not yet been formed._

_Maybe._

_Or maybe choose to be vulnerable. Choose to show compassion to that which could so easily be despised. Choose to nurture. Choose to nourish._

_Choose to show that, in the wayside of toxicity, there is an antidote to such a poison._

_For hatred pierces the soul and turns crimson blood to black._

.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.::.

It didn’t matter when Clarke Griffin first experienced the heavy-handed harness of hate. It didn’t matter. It was something she had felt before, and it was something she could not bear to feel again. Of course, she’d had a blessed upbringing; never wanting for anything, not really. Two devoted parents who loved her, a beautiful younger sister, a passion for creativity and knowledge. How could she possibly find it within herself to believe she was hard-done-by? When something bad happened, sometimes there was nothing that could be done about it except to let it go. Even if the fury and the resentment still clutched at her skin; even if it took every ounce of strength she had left, it _had_ to go. How would she ever move past this, how could she ever be happy, if all that remained in her heart was hatred?

At the age of 22, moving across the waters of her Southern home in America over to the tiny empire of the British could have been exactly the sort of fresh start she needed. Someplace she could lose herself in, focus everything she had left on building, on creating, on experiencing.

Alternatively, she could lose herself in all of the above, and the even very act of doing so could just ruin her instead.

The Arcadian Academy of the Arts ( _or Arcadia_ ) … Who cared about the rest of the booklet, anyway? Clarke fully intended on exploring absolutely everything Arcadia had to offer her without a printed textual guide. Besides, there were undoubtedly a great many perks of being Mathis Jakob Griffin’s great-granddaughter: free tickets to any, and all, events, out of hours access to any, and all, buildings, and pleasing penthouse accommodation in the centre of the entire complex.

It took Clarke a little under a week to establish a network of like-minded people, engage herself in a healthy routine, and learn new skills and experiences with the extensive resources at her fingertips.

It was, in a word, _perfect_.

Surrounded constantly by talent, colours, art, music, and beauty, Clarke was utterly in her element. Plus, she’d managed to keep her identity as a Griffin relatively under wraps, aside from those she was closest to. It wasn’t an active choice to begin with; it wasn’t that she believed herself to be some huge undercover celebrity, although Arcadia did attract numerous famous faces. But, if anything, she wanted to avoid people placing expectations on her, or hating her just _because_. It was easier for Clarke. People looked at her art, and not at her. They could recognise her work from a mile off, but give her a blank smile when passing her in the street.

For a year, she followed the linear process of her happiness; work hard, play hard, various other relevant cliché mottos, and so on.

And for a while, it worked. It was okay. She could forget about the reasons why she’d moved in the first place. She could prosper. She could live freely.

And then, without any sort of warning, everything changed. It wasn’t immediate, but it wasn’t gradual enough to go unnoticed. It was enough to remind Clarke that there was a darkness within her, as there was in everyone, and that such a darkness could ruin her.

.::.::.::.::.::.

There was something about her creations that set her apart. Perhaps it was the way she captured the quietest of thoughts in somebody’s expressions, just by examining the dimmest crease in their forehead. Or, perhaps it was the way she replicated the slouch of their shoulders. Maybe even the proud puff of their chest. _Everything_ told a story. Even if somebody believed they could conceal theirs, it only made the plotline more interesting, more telling.

How one person’s smile could change from one millisecond to the next, and how that same smile could betray anything _but_ joy. How somebody’s stare could be so impenetrable, so blank and so concrete, and how that same stare could express an entire universe of devastation. She saw people.

She _saw_ people.

Read them.

She had devoted years to studying body language, facial expressions, human emotion. And it paid off.

Usually.

“So… how was the exhibition?”

Clarke slid into an unoccupied booth at the back of The Orion Arms pub, motioning for her companions to join her, one hand holding onto her glass of house ale and her other resting atop her thigh. She turned to the young man making space for himself beside her.

“Good.” Clarke nodded, responding to the question with a nod of confirmation, “Yeah, I mean, it was alright. I didn’t submit anything.”

With dark eyebrows raised, he rested a toned arm on the table, his sleeve rolled to the elbow, “Really? Why?”

Clarke just shrugged, smiling faintly, “To be honest, Wells, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, really. There will be others.”

Wells inclined his head, wishing he possessed even a fraction of Clarke’s natural ability to read others as if they were nothing more complicated than a child’s colouring book.

“What about you?” He changed the subject, turning to the girls sitting across the table, “What are you working on at the moment, Ray?”

“Dissertation… and I want to end it all…” The brunette ran a hand through her hair, staring deeply into the bottom of her glass as though the gin contained the answers to all of her problems. It probably contained a good few of them, in fairness.

“Dark.” Wells concluded with a sympathetic expression of pain on his features, “I might’ve got some spare arsenic if you need it to flavour your gin.”

“I mean, I _was_ talking about ending the dissertation, but thanks, anyway.”

“Yeah, but it’s your own fault for enrolling in a bloody degree, isn’t it? You could have done exactly what you’re doing now but without all the stress of actual work.” Octavia’s accent was initially passable as English, but Clarke had quickly noticed the subtle way she curled her R’s and shaped her vowels when they’d first met. She had been informed, after making various incorrect assumptions about Australia and such, that Octavia was in fact Irish by birth, but had moved across to England in her early teens to attend private school.

“Yes, because some of us can’t waltz in front of a camera, flash a smile or a tit, and get hired to be a leading role in the next goddamn blockbuster.”

Clarke laughed, quietly, “Have you not tried flashing a tit, Raven?”

“I’ve considered it.” She replied, sucking moodily on her straw.

“Any time you want an audience to practice in front of, let me know.”

“Surely, you see enough tits as it is.” Octavia nudged Clarke’s foot under the table, “Not that I’m insinuating you to be a slag, by the way–”

“–although it is a topic we could put up for debate at some point–”

“– _but_ you draw a lot of naked people. Don’t you get your titty fix doing that?”

“Absolutely.” Clarke raised an eyebrow, provocatively, “It was only yesterday that I was drawing your tits, wasn’t it, Wells?”

“And what a marvellous pair he has.” Raven interjected as Wells purposely flexed each side of his chest to prove her point.

“They’re enough to make Raven green with envy.” Octavia hid her teasing smirk behind the rim of her pint glass.

“And, as if on cue, look who’s just come through the door. Maybe we could invite her into our conversation about your tits.” Clarke suggested, indicating to the entrance where the subject in question stepped into the pub, easily a head taller than most other females in there.

Raven glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes almost immediately, “I honestly have no idea why you push this.”

“You did call her hot when you were drunk, once.” Octavia offered, with an angelic smile.

“Yes, once! Jesus, not that I have anything against you homos,” she gestured to Clarke, “but I’m quite partial to penis.”

Clarke scoffed in amusement, “Is that how you identify now? Hi, I’m Raven Reyes and I’m partial to penis.”

“ _Quite_ partial.” Wells corrected, happy to climb aboard the mockery train.

“Of course, Wells sides with Clarke.” Raven groaned, finishing off her gin.

“That’s only because Clarke is quite partial to _his_ occasional penis, aren’t you?” Octavia grinned, waggling her eyebrows between both her and Wells.

“I will not dignify that abominable rumour with a response,” Clarke rolled her eyes, “and back to the subject at hand, would you care to join me at the bar for a drink, Ray?”

“I really can’t fathom this obsession.” Raven was muttering, shaking her head.

“But you _are_ out of gin.” Clarke observed.

Raven acknowledged this truth with a small nod, “You’re not wrong. Okay, Hannah Montana, I will humour you this once because, and only because, I need more gin to cope with your bloody American antics.”

“I contest that statement. My antics have nothing to do with my nationality. Also, Hannah Montana was from Franklin, and I was born in Clarksville. Yes, yes, my name is Clarke and I was born in Clarksville. How clever. Congratulations to the ingenuity of my parents.”

Raven raised her eyebrows, her eyes lighting up mildly, “That actually makes a lot of sense, but I don’t actually know where either of those places are.”

Slapping on her thickest Southern accent, Clarke winked at her friend as she pulled her towards the bar, “Tennessee, baby.”

As the two approached the bar, the woman (who had unwittingly been a topic of their conversation) turned towards them with a feigned roll of her eyes, “Oh, excellent. Just what I needed to spoil my evening.”

Raven was quick to retaliate, “Yeah, right. Like we aren’t the most exciting thing that’s happened to you all day.”

“Not here all by your lonesome, are ya, Anya?” Clarke asked moving to stand on the other side of her, ordering herself a pint of the good stuff.

“Actually, no. I’m here with my most recent protégé, but she’s just nipped to the ladies’.”

“Haven’t you corrupted enough women already?”

Clarke bit back a laugh at Raven’s comment. She brought this entire thing on herself, whether it was knowingly or not.

Anya merely raised an eyebrow, watching the young brunette with an impassive stare, “There aren’t enough women in this world for me to corrupt, Reyes.”

“Well, you might as well buy me a gin, then.” She sighed, taking a seat on the barstool beside Anya and resting her chin in her hand.

“Oh, might I?” Anya tilted her head to one side, expectantly, “What will I get in return?” 

“Depends how much gin you buy me. Come on, I’ll have a double.”

Clarke suppressed her glee at the interaction between the two, knowing there was likely very little substance behind the entire thing, but grateful for the entertainment all the same.

As she supped her pint, she could feel the shift beside her without needing to look up. It was initially the scent she caught first. Something delicate, pleasant, musky. In response to the new presence, Clarke turned her head by way of greeting, her eyes settling on the familiar face she’d seen a couple of weeks ago. It could’ve been a year ago, three even. It didn’t matter. Clarke never forgot a face.

Although, admittedly, hers wasn’t the sort of face one would be likely to forget.

“Hey, there.” She offered the newcomer a friendly smile, “You’re looking significantly less lost today.”

A pair of pale green eyes slid to meet the gentle blue in Clarke’s. Instant recognition passed over her gaze, but if anything, her jaw only tightened. To Clarke’s surprise, the young woman (no older than her, presumably) tore her gaze away. Clarke had seen this sort of behaviour before; some of Arcadia’s attendees were avoidant of any kind of interaction with others. It was sometimes a narcissism thing, and it was sometimes a shy thing. Appealing to the latter theory, Clarke tried again, hoping to help Anya’s “latest protégé” feel a little more at ease. Arcadia, although full of bright lights and possibility, had a dark side to it, too. It could cast shadows without warning, indulge isolation and inadequacy.

“I’m Clarke, by the way. Can I get you a drink, or something?” It was said with platonic intent. It rarely took longer than a few seconds for her to get someone out of their protective shell.

The young woman stiffened beside her at the question, “I can get my own.”

“Oh, sure, I didn’t mean–”

“–Look, I’m not here to make friends.”

“You realise you’re standing in a social circle at a social venue, right?” She teased, ignoring the uncertainty that prodded at her chest. She was direct, at least. Clarke had to give her that.

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m standing at a bar, having a drink. That, for me, isn’t a social experience.”

Not one to be so easily disheartened, Clarke inclined her head, swayed gently by the alcohol in her system to get past the prickly exterior of the woman standing beside her, “Sure, but you’re having a drink with Anya? So, that’s halfway to being social, isn’t it?”

Irritation flickered over her expression, and she turned, getting a good look at the breezy young woman before her. It wasn’t the first time the blonde had been subject to such appraisal and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time, either. She waited patiently for the dark-haired woman to finish her judgements. “What do you want from me?”

“Want from you?” Clarke raised both eyebrows and shook her head in mild confusion, “I don’t want anything _from_ you. I just wanted to help you feel–”

“–To be clear, I don’t need help and most certainly not from somebody like you.”

“Ah, you’re one of those.”

“One of those?” She repeated, heat whipping the green of her eyes, angular jaw flexing, “I am not one of anything.”

Clarke forced herself to look beyond the rising resentment in her chest. It wasn’t like she was asking the newcomer to stay up late so they could paint each other’s nails, or anything. Taking a steady breath, she grounded herself to respond as civilly as she could, continuing with the conversation more out of stubbornness than anything else.

“So, you’re _not_ one of those who assumes every person they meet is going to try and sabotage their future?”

“And you’re _not_ one of those who would try and do that?”

“No.” She said, quietly, “I’m not. Sure, they exist. But that’s exactly the reason why, in a place like this, you might find that you need friends. It’s all rosy, until it’s not.”

Evidently, the brunette standing stationary beside her thought nothing to her advice and answered dismissively, her voice emanating as much warmth as a solitary stone as she subjected the blonde to a critical once-over, “I’ll pass.” 

Clarke should have simply nodded her head, accepted the rejection, and continued on with her night without any further malice. As it was, she felt herself pulled deeper. Maybe it was the way the brunette’s eyes had lingered emptily on her skin.

“Are you sure?” It was her final offer, and the question lodged in her throat as she asked it.

As if to slap her in the face, the young woman was silent, the cold intensity of her stare battling with the fire in Clarke’s. The brunette’s arrogance left her mouth burning and the dormant taste of hate rolled over her tongue in a bitter wave as it woke. She despised the feeling, the way her heart pounded angrily against her ribs. Films and books often left out the parts of hate that took away the humanity in one’s heart. Often left out the emptiness and the restlessness. With eyes painted almost black, Clarke focused on the cold face before her; smooth olive skin and a pale green stare void of anything except arrogance and indifference. She might’ve even considered the girl before her attractive had she shown even an ounce of warmth in her character. The worst part about it, was that it was an overreaction. Clarke had no right to feel such discord towards her – it was unwarranted. But she did.

Her father had taught her only kindness, and her mama had taught her resilience.

And such a conversation shouldn’t have really required either.

After a moment of unbearable friction, the blonde just nodded and pushed away from the bar. Hardly able to stop herself from suppressing the fury brimming on the back of her tongue, Clarke rested a hand lightly on Anya’s arm as she walked by, “I hope her talent truly is exceptional. It will need to be.” She’d managed to keep it calm, and even sound sincere as she spoke the words. She’d meant it.

Raven was tailing her, biting back her inappropriate laughter, “Jesus. Could’ve cut that tension with a knife.”

“I felt like cutting something with a knife, and it wasn’t the tension, believe me.”

Raven scoffed as they joined the others at the table, “So, shall we start placing bets on how long it will be before you tear each other’s clothes off?”

“Sure, if you’re set on parting with your money.” Clarke placed down her glass, casting a glance back over at the bar where Anya stood with her “protégé”. The young woman was biting down on her lower lip, staring at the countertop surface. Then, without warning, her glacial gaze shifted. For the briefest of moments, as their eyes met again, Clarke swore she saw a hint of regret.


	2. Chapter 1 - Hangovers and Jesus

Seated opposite her tutor, Lexa read the subtle changes in her face with interest. She had been summoned for an impromptu meeting in Anya’s office one Sunday morning.

“I know it’s strange me asking to meet you at this time. Sunday mornings are reserved for things like hangovers and Jesus.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow, “I’m afraid I haven’t hit the communion wine quite that hard, yet.”

A briefly amused smile crossed Anya’s lips before she continued, “I’ve been thinking,” she leaned back in her beanbag, one leg draping over the other, “about how we’re going to kickstart your entire public aesthetic.”

Lexa felt it would be best to allow Anya to explain fully before she interrupted with questions of any sort. Yet, she could feel already that she would have many.

“You’ve got the music theory and the practicing bit nailed. The thing you’re lacking is goals, Lexa.”

_Goals?_

“People very rarely come to Arcadia just for lessons or classes. People come here to get one foot in the door to fame. You’ll have seen a lot of faces you recognise here and, yes, I know what you’re thinking. You didn’t come here for stardom, I know. That being said, Jake Griffin didn’t give you a free pass to come here without expecting a little something in return, and let’s face it, you’ve had a good couple of months to settle in already. Now’s the time to start looking forward.”

Lexa bit her tongue to save herself from saying something heated. She had already suspected that Jake Griffin would somehow cash in on his favour to her later down the line. She just hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.

“I’ll put it plainly for you. You could make Jake Griffin a _lot_ of money, Lexa.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t have enough of that already.” She muttered, not without a trace of sarcasm.

“He’s disgustingly rich.” Anya confirmed, “Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try and make more, though. People who make money don’t hit a certain figure and think ‘yeah, that’ll do me’. They keep going if they can. The point I’m making is that there’s something in this for you if you play your cards right. Or, should I say if you play your _chords_ right…?”

Grimacing, Lexa shook her head, “Probably not.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I thought that was passable, at least.”

“It wasn’t.”

Anya sighed, “Fine, you’re right.”

“It was a terrible joke.” Lexa reinforced.

“Yes, well, I realise that now. Listen, all that aside, I know there’s a reason you don’t want to make friends while you’re here. You don’t want anybody getting in your way, but the question is, what would they be getting in the way of? Your downtime? Your practices?” Anya shook her head, “It’s time you started playing the game.”

“The game.” She repeated.

“Exactly. I’m submitting you into the contest for the Arcadian Proms and you’re going to perform this.”

Anya slid a manuscript across the glass coffee table between them into Lexa’s unsuspecting hands. She examined the handwritten score with slow realisation, “This is a composition of Jake Griffin’s. I know this.”

“Most violinists with any self-proclaimed culture do. _Sine Fine_.” Anya quoted the title, “Yet, so many have failed to deliver quite in the way he intended. You perfect this, Lexa, and you’ve already got one foot in the door, and that door was crafted exactly for somebody like you. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to make a few quid along the way, does it?”

“Quid?” Lexa’s brows creased, marginally.

“Like bucks, but British. Anyway, I’d tell you to think about it, but I’ve already made the decision for you, so no thought is required. I’ve pulled one or two strings so you’ve been guaranteed a slot in the auditions.”

“Silly of me to assume I would be given a choice.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Anya grinned, widely.

“So, the Arcadian Proms. Is that as big as it sounds?”

Anya looked at her tutee with a frozen grin in place, the humour in her eyes quickly replaced with disbelief, “Yes.” She said, mouth barely moving, “Yes, it is, and we only have a few weeks prep before auditions.”

“How are you so sure I qualify for something like that?”

She avoided delivering Lexa the thick ear she so desperately wanted to and exhaled, “Because I said so. Don’t make me change my mind.”

After a moment of contemplation, Lexa glanced up to her tutor, “I have a question.” She waited for silent permission to voice it, “You said I shouldn’t get close to people while I’m here, but you have friends.”

Anya’s smile thinned, “Yes, I do, and I don’t deserve that disapproving look you’re giving me right now.” There was something deeper that flickered behind her eyes, and she looked as if she might explain what it meant, but ultimately thought better of it, “Look, there are people here I’ve known a long time, like Clarke, and I’ve known her family even longer. I have been a part of Arcadia for long enough to recognise which people are worth befriending and which aren’t. Until you develop that same discernment, Lexa, I’d advise you just to be careful.” 

“So, in other words, do as you say and not as you do?”

“Exactly.” Anya confirmed, “I’ve worked hard enough to do what I want. When you get to my level, you will earn that same right. So, less sass and more care, okay?”

In retrospect, although her opinion remained very much set in stone, Lexa thought perhaps she could’ve gone about things in a different manner. That night they’d met properly hadn’t been the last time she’d seen the young, confident blonde. She’d grazed past her in the courtyard every now and again, occasionally witnessed her running her fingers along the spines of books in the library, noticed her laughing and drinking in The Orion Arms with her circle of friends. Neither went out of their way to display their displeasure towards the other, but they certainly made no attempt to form any sort of pleasantries either. Lexa had known that was her fault, and at the time, she hadn’t thought she would feel any sort of after affect. But now, even though the entire thing was miniscule in the grand scheme of her life, she couldn’t shake the discomfort settled in her stomach.

Lexa hadn’t been brought up to be rude. Quite the opposite, in fact. Her mother had always been a beautiful and selfless soul, treating others with a courtesy and respect that Lexa admired. So, what was it, then, that had created such an unbalance within her? She imagined living with her emotionally-stunted Aunt hadn’t particularly helped matters.

She studied Anya for a prolonged moment, before nodding, “Okay. I’ll be careful.”

“Excellent. Now, we’ll meet as usual for our lesson tomorrow. I’d suggest going over the piece in the meantime to prepare.”

Lexa said nothing further and complied to Anya’s request with a nod of her head. She only hoped that this was the start of something good.

.::..::..::..::..::.

It betrayed itself in her work. In her art. It didn’t matter what she was creating – painting, sculpture, drawing. There was always something dark that twisted its way into the heart of it all.

Even now, as she poured herself into her latest project, something felt tangibly off. She was distracted, and for good reason. No matter how hard she tried to replicate the image of her subject, the strength she sought to prove was absent. Behind the state of her candidate was power, yet in her work, she could see only rancour. It had stemmed from that night at The Orion Arms, those few months ago. That was where the black pit in her stomach was first formed. From there, it swallowed up the rest of her like an astronomical spectre. Anya’s tutee had slighted her at a particularly sensitive moment; not that she’d known and not that it was her fault, but since then, Clarke had started to notice that the things she once took joy in were dwindling. Whenever she saw the young woman since, she tried to ignore the inexpressive pale green stare and the way it could leave her feeling empty, herself. It wasn’t just because of her, though. It was an accumulation of other aspects within her life.

She missed home. She missed the hot sun and she missed her sister. More than anything.

Truly, where was she heading? She had always felt her life was destined for more. Maybe something beyond the reaches of a rich-people’s recreation. Maybe that was cliché or naïve, but could she really be blamed for wanting an incentive _other_ than money?

“Sorry, Wells.” Clarke placed down her paintbrush, “Can we pick this up another time? I don’t think I’m in the right headspace.”

Frowning, Wells cracked his back, half grateful for the opportunity to finally move, “Am I doing something wrong? You’ve been working on my eyes for the past hour.”

“No, ‘course not. You’re doing brilliantly. I just can’t seem to get it right. I think I’m pouring more of me into this image than I am of you.” She sighed, chewing her lip in thought.

“Something on your mind?” He asked, shrugging into his jacket.

“Maybe.” Clarke wiped her stained hands on her paint-spattered jeans, “Or maybe you’re not supposed to be captured with paint. I think perhaps you’re more of a clay kinda guy.”

“Not sure I completely follow, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

She managed a laugh, “Suppose I owe you for this.”

“Naturally.” He grinned, checking his pockets with a pat of his palms, “I’ll cash in the favour as and when. You feeling ready for your tutoring to start again? Or do artists take liberties and only turn up to classes when the muse strikes?”

“You’re confusing the quirkiness of artists as the diva found in rock stars, Wells.” She returned, only for his grin to widen.

“Are you calling me a rock star, Griffin?”

“I was more emphasising the diva, but if it makes you feel better…”

Wells nodded, “So, want to grab lunch, or anything? Or do you have some soul searching to do?”

“Soul searching, I think.” Clarke decided, “The sort that isn’t found in a sandwich.”

“Pity.” He shrugged, “Life would be a whole lot easier if our existential crises were solved by a baguette.”

“Maybe one day.”

“We can always hope. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. If you’re feeling better after your soul searching, let me know if you fancy a beer.”

“Will do.” Clarke was already occupying herself in sharpening her tools, her attention thinning. Wells left her with a good-natured laugh. He knew better than to hover when she fell into this state. Although, recently, it was starting to become more frequent. Worryingly, it seemed he was the only one who had noticed.

It wasn’t until some days later, when Clarke had given up on her recreation of Wells in paint form and moved on instead to sculpt him out of clay, that he launched the request.

“So,” He began, relaxing his facial muscles for a moment from the creasing fury he had been displaying, “I could really do with cashing in that favour.”

Clarke’s thumbs paused over Wells’ clay eye sockets, glancing at him from over the top of the moistened skull structure she had her palms pressed against, “Go on, then. Who do you need me to kill?”

“The prime minister.” He shrugged, smiling faintly.

“Luckily, I sharpened my knives this morning.” She teased, but could already tell she wasn’t going to approve of the real favour he had to ask her.

“I know that it’s not something you do publicly and I wouldn’t ask you unless it was an absolute emergency, but I really, _really_ need your voice.”

“For what?”

“My vocalist quit after we entered into a battle of the bands event type thing. It’s nothing huge, but–”

“–I don’t sing, Wells. You know I don’t.” She was firm, unpersuadable.

He slid off the stool, treading over the linen sheet in his bare feet towards her, “No, I know you don’t usually. But, Clarke, I’ve heard your voice. If you weren’t so bloody good at art, I’d sabotage your entire career so you’d _have_ to turn to music instead.”

“Yes, you and the rest of my family.” She muttered, distastefully, “Surely, there’s somebody else you could ask. I mean, literally _anybody_ else. About three quarters of the population here sing.”

“There isn’t.” He exhaled in exasperation, “There’s nobody. Not anybody whose voice would hold even a tealight to yours. Look, the event is in a couple of weeks and it’s not a massive, _massive_ thing. Just a few cover songs. Come on. Please.”

Clarke groaned, “No, Wells. If it’s not a huge event, why does it matter how good the vocalist is?”

“You know how these things are. Everyone’s placing their bets and if we win, it would mean big money, Clarke.”

“Oh, yeah, really sounds like a small event.” She narrowed her eyes in deep suspicion.

“It’s worth it for the money. You’d get your share, of course.”

“Well, in that case, since I’m in desperate need of money…” She offered a sarcastic smile before her face smoothed over, “Doesn’t it piss you off that people get treated like racehorses around here?”

Wells just looked at her.

“Right.” She laughed, quietly, “Course not.”

Beyond the bountiful talent lay greedy suits who strategized and gambled with people’s lives like they were nothing but poker chips. It was one of the main reasons Clarke avoided the music industry. It was why she kept her face hidden behind sculptures and canvases. She had watched her father go through the entire thing and now he was just as much of a slave to the cyclic industry as the people who influenced him when he was no more than a child. She’d seen how he had been monopolised, his talents used as weapons in an arsenal of labels and brands. She could see it starting to happen to her sister, even back in America. Once you fell into the spotlight, you lost control of the beams. No access to the switch.

Clarke had quickly grown to learn that the Arcadian Academy of the Arts was a double-edged sword, and its blade was unconquerable.

“I get it if you say no.” He sighed.

“I did say no.”

“But I get it if you mean it.”

“I did mean it.”

“You could use a pseudonym.”

“Hannah Montana?” Clarke scoffed.

“Alexis Texas.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not sure He’s an appropriate pseudonym to use.”

Clarke laughed, despite wanting to knock his head off, “It isn’t just about my identity. People are vaguely aware of who I am, but I get away with it because I go to events where it’s not my face in the spotlight.”

“Actually, that’s given me an idea. What about if we found a way to market your art?” Wells held up a finger in request of Clarke’s patience. He glanced about him furtively, eventually finding an item in the far end of the workshop, “Look.” He picked up a masquerade mask and held it in front of his face, “Aesthetics _and_ anonymity. We could all wear them.”

“I didn’t pin you as a Slipknot fan.”

Wells laughed and glanced at the mask in his hands, realising quite quickly that he was holding something close to Satanic.

“But something more subtle could work. Something like…” Clarke mused, grabbing a piece of paper and pushing aside her tools. With dried clay caking her hands, she began to sketch out a few ideas, biting down on her lip with creased concentration, “…like that.”

Wells raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding over the drafts of colombina masks, “Well, there we have it. It’ll be good, right?”

Clarke paused mid shade and rolled her eyes, groaning internally at the fact she’d somehow managed to accidentally talk her way into it, “For god’s sake.” Then, finally, she conceded, “ _Alright_. Alright, when’s rehearsals?”

Wells grinned, “Starting tonight.”

“To be clear, this goes far beyond the reaches of cashing in your favour. You owe me. Big.” Waving her pencil in front of her with a pissy expression, Clarke indicated to the stool in the centre of her workspace, “Now sit your ass down and let me finish this.”

.::..::..::..::..::.

Begrudgingly, Clarke traipsed her way to the Soundhouse, already cursing herself for the idiot she was. Beneath Wells’ assurances that this upcoming Battle of the Goddamn Bands was just a small event, she couldn’t shake the sickness lining her stomach. She’d never struggled with self-confidence in front of crowds. Not really. Her anxieties were based more on the fear that she would be recognised as a singer – not an artist. She didn’t care for the currents of the mainstream industry, despite her exposure to it from such a young age.

As she stepped into the huge black cube of a building, she wandered to the practice room Wells had allocated to their rehearsal. It was somewhere way up at the top of the building, much to her chagrin. Before hauling her reluctant ass into the room, she stopped. Something had made her stop. A sound. Barely even that. She felt the humming vibration somewhere in the depth of her chest at first. A whisper of something transcendent. Almost a melody. Almost the song of a siren. Entranced, Clarke neared the source of the fascination, walking beyond her intended destination. A door situated at the very end of the dimly lit corridor was shadowed in black paint. It had been left unintentionally ajar – a hairline fracture. Had it been closed completely Clarke perhaps would never have heard the sound that would both haunt and soothe her for years to come.

With her ear close to the crack, heart pounding wildly, Clarke inhaled sharply. A violin. Her father’s favourite instrument, although one he had never fully mastered. He believed it was an instrument one could only be born with the aptitude to play. Now, she understood why. To whomever the artful fingertips belonged to, Clarke knew that the stringed instrument was designed only to be played by them.

As she listened, knees weak, a shudder crawled over her skin. She recognised the piece. It was one her father had composed. She knew it well because he had torn his way through sheets and sheets manuscript paper, unable to quite decide on a final phrase. He had asked her opinion on how to complete it several times. It had been his attempt at engaging Clarke into the world of music. She recalled making a few offhand suggestions, but returned to whatever piece of art she had been crafting at the time. In the end, he’d left it without an ending. It tapered to an unsatiated close. Such was his inner turmoil at choosing the notes to do the rest of the piece suitable justice.

Now, more curious than ever, she rested her fingertips against the black door, pulse throbbing in her neck; she wanted to catch a glimpse of the musician breathing sorrowful life into the composition. Levelling her eyes with the gap between wall and door, Clarke’s inquisition was broken by Wells’ rich voice behind her, “Oy, Griffin. Wrong room!”

Swallowing thickly as if caught doing something improper, Clarke’s hand slid longingly from the polished wood, “Right.”

And then the music faded as she walked away.

But it would not be the final time she would hear it.

To tell the truth, she was almost ashamed of it; the way her intrigue developed beyond _just_ intrigue. How it began to slide over her like a quiet, slow-burning obsession. How it consumed her to the very core, like wildfire. She’d tried to push it away at first, determined to ignore how music was a part of her soul, her blood, as much as she wished it not to be. Yet the violin awoke something within her. Or perhaps it was less about the violin and more about the unseen person who played it. It could’ve been anybody. But not just anybody could tend to each dynamic, or caress each string with such raw desolation.

It got to the point where Clarke had memorised the routine like clockwork. If she arrived outside the practice room at 20:05, the violinist would have completed their warm-up, and would be beginning their session. She could squeeze in a good 20 minutes of listening with her ear to the door before rehearsals started. Initially, Clarke had been curious about the person behind the music, but gradually decided against uncovering the identity. It was everything she stood for – anonymity behind the creativity. Besides, she might’ve seen who the person was and been thoroughly disappointed. There was a distinct poetry to such a faceless masterpiece.

She knew it was exactly the sort of sound her Dad would love. He would’ve probably sat where she was for hours, unbreakable rapture on his face. There would be no grabbing his attention. Once he was lost to the music, he was gone completely. Perhaps, Clarke thought, perhaps she resented music for that reason. Or, perhaps it was her father she resented for losing himself. Just a little.

Either way, _this_ was her secret. Her release. And she craved it more.

.::..::..::..::..::.

“Oh, look. Your best friend’s here.”

Glancing up from her phone screen, straw hanging out of her mouth, Clarke followed Raven’s gaze, already knowing exactly what shade of green she would find on the other end of it, just by the way she smirked.

“So is the woman that features in your every wet dream.” She returned, speaking around the straw, her attention drifting back to her phone.

It was just the two of them at the Orion that evening. Octavia and Wells would have probably dropped by later, but in the meantime, Clarke was more than happy just slouching her back against the chair without disturbance.

“What, you’re _not_ going to try persuade me to sit in front of Anya with my legs wide open?” Raven mock-gasped.

The tight tension in her stomach seemed to asphyxiate whatever wit she had left; the way it always did whenever she saw the striking, phantom-like figure glide into whatever vicinity Clarke happened to be in at the time.

“Not tonight.” She shook her head, feeling a soft prickle creep over the skin on her neck. As if prompted, she raised her head again, only to regret the motion immediately. Clear green swept over her features, the vacancy piercing Clarke the way it usually did. She didn’t shy away from the stare. She returned it, the usual blue flame of her eyes lacking any sort of lustre whatsoever. In honesty, Clarke couldn’t be bothered to fuel the hate anymore. It was exhausting, and she had greater priorities on her mind in that moment.

Caught in the crossfire, Anya made her way confidently to their booth, already inviting herself to sit beside Raven, “You don’t mind Lexa and I joining for a bev, do you?”

“Knew it wouldn’t be long before you came to try your luck again.” Raven edged further along the bench to accommodate Anya and her pint.

Lexa. It suited her. Annoyingly.

Clarke continued scrolling through images on her phone that inspired her masks, uncharacteristically uninterested in the light-hearted flirtatious conversation transpiring between Raven and Anya. She ignored the shift, and the loud emptiness of the vacated seat beside her.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

At the sound of her voice, Clarke had to glance up to make sure it really was Lexa speaking. There was something melodic, gentle almost, about the way she murmured the request. Surprised at the lack of abrasiveness to her tone, she parted her lips, but chose to say nothing. Lexa was watching her, guardedly.

In response, she shrugged and moved over to make room. She was grateful Raven was currently placing her at the butt of her jokes because it gave her the opportunity to break the awkward silence between her and the enigma beside her.

“…can’t wait to see Clarke fall off the stage.”

“I can’t wait to land on you and break your legs.”

“Wow.” Raven clutched at her chest, “Very specific and uncalled for.”

Anya smirked, “Your legs will already be broken once I’ve swept you off your feet.”

In confused amusement, Raven turned to look at the dark blonde beside her, “I can’t work out if you are trying to be charming or terrifying.”

“I succeed at both.”

Clarke once again zoned out of the conversation, responding to the message from her sister. Usually, she despised getting caught in zombifying herself in the world of technology. But the alternative would be to talk, and she didn’t feel much like doing that either. Her throat was hoarse from singing so much the day before.

“Anya mentioned you have known each other for some time.”

Clarke was shocked for the second time that evening. She could see that, for some unbeknownst reason, Lexa was deciding to condescend to conversation. Maybe to avoid the unbearable discomfort between them. Either way, she was trying to make some sort of effort – whatever the effort was in aid of. Perhaps Anya’s protégé was feeling quite uncomfortable watching the two mock-flirt with each other at the opposite side of the table. Which, admittedly, Clarke was beginning to suspect had become more and more habitual due to Raven’s recent desire to procrastinate her dissertation, rather than a sudden desire to bed a woman.

Bringing herself back to the present, back to the way Lexa sat perfectly still beside her, both hands folded gracefully in her lap, Clarke replied with a “yep”, popping the finality of the word with her lips. Had she felt more inclined to endorse superficial pleasantries, Clarke probably would’ve whipped up something easy to discuss. She might’ve asked what Lexa’s favourite drink was. She might’ve asked what brought her to Arcadia. She might’ve asked what Anya was tutoring her in, for Anya had many, _many_ talents. It was the reason her father had invited her personally to the academy. Something he did rarely when he found a talent he couldn’t bear to let slip through his fingers. She probably would’ve studied her a little more, memorised the finer details of her face. She might’ve dug a little deeper into the depths of Lexa’s incalculable character, such was the nature of the artist within her. As it was, Lexa’s incalculable character was an arrogant asshole. So, despite her stillness, despite her perfect poise, despite the natural inkling of intrigue Clarke felt tugging her towards the brunette, she reminded herself of the aforementioned quality (of being an arrogant asshole) and determined that such an attempt would be as successful as it would be enjoyable. Lexa seemed unfazed by Clarke’s barriered response. In fact, she appeared more than content with the silence. Clarke caught her in her peripheral vision observing her surroundings without doing so much as turning her head.

Just as Clarke thought that perhaps they had established a mutual understanding of ignorance between them, Lexa spoke once more, “Do you pursue music here?”

“It’s more accurate to say music pursues me.” Clarke replied, not without an air of inexplicably bitter humour. Lexa waited, concealed interest behind her eyes as she glanced across at Clarke from the corner of her vision, as if for an explanation. Clarke sipped her pint, explaining nothing.

Lexa merely breathed a quiet sigh, “I see.”

Clarke highly doubted she “saw” at all. Believing that to be the last of it, she once again bullied herself into scrolling mindlessly through her phone. Raven and Anya had gone to fetch another drink, leaving the two of them quite alone.

“Have you been here long?”

Clarke blinked, deciding to put her phone away. Why was she still continuing this?

“Look, just stop. It’s okay.” The indifference fell over her features like a final curtain, “You don’t need to pretend. I know where we stand.”

She didn’t bother to meet Lexa’s stare.

“I don’t…” The brunette hesitated, seemingly deciding to change the structure of her sentence, “It isn’t a personal thing, Clarke.”

Clarke hated the way she spoke her name, so carefully, with such control. Instead of looking deeper into why that was, she focused on the other infuriating part of Lexa’s comment.

“I really hate it when people say that.” She laughed, humourlessly.

“Why?”

“Why?” She turned, finally staring at the wall of green before her, “Because it’s bullshit. Because, in some way, our actions _always_ affect somebody and that, to me, is personal.”

Lexa was quiet.

“If you do something and justify it as something ‘not personal’, you’re de-validating the reasons why somebody might be upset by what you’ve done. You’re taking away their right to feel something.” Clarke tried her best to articulate her point, but Lexa still sat without much expression on her face and she wondered why she’d even bothered trying in the first place.

“It wasn’t intentional for me to upset you.”

That just made it worse. Irritably, Clarke drummed her palm on the table, “God, you didn’t upset me. Sure, you pissed me off, and with good reason, because you were rude and it was uncalled for. That’s not the point I’m making. I’m trying to say that it’s a sorry excuse for somebody to avoid facing their conscience, but look, it’s not just you, okay? This place is full of arrogant holier-than-thou assholes, so I’m sure there are plenty of people who share your perspective. So, feel free to go sit with them instead.”

That one had just slipped out, but she had started now, so there was no reason why she shouldn’t continue.

“I’m just sick of people going out of their way to make other people feel belittled or stupid. Luckily, it’s fine and I don’t care because I’ve seen it and heard it all before. Just don’t sit here now and act like you care about making conversation. I find that worse than you sitting there in silence. You don’t care about my answers, so don’t ask me questions like you do.”

Lexa seemed to be turning Clarke’s words over in her mind and if she was angry or affected, she didn’t betray it. At least, not right away.

“Kindness costs nothing, you know?” Clarke tacked on at the end, her voice lowering to a mutter.

Finally, Lexa spoke, “Not always.”

Clarke might’ve asked her how, if the truth of her response hadn’t hit her squarely in the chest. Instead, she just focused her stare on the rim of her glass instead, hardly surprised that was Lexa’s only response to everything she’d just said, “Yeah, well, sometimes the cost is worth it.”

“And sometimes, it’s not.” Lexa’s voice was soft, unchallenging. Factual.

“And what would it have cost you, hm?”

“Less than what I’m paying now, I imagine.”

Again, this was something Clarke hadn’t expected. For the third time, she found herself puzzled by Lexa’s words, “What?”

Lexa didn’t explain herself. Clarke didn’t particularly feel she deserved an explanation, either. Not after her rather accusatory monologue.

“Well, I’m sure you can afford whatever the cost is, anyway.” Clarke had intended it as a metaphor, but something seemed to change in the way Lexa sat beside her. Maybe it was something about her breathing. Either way, it didn’t matter. When it seemed that Lexa had resigned herself from the conversation, Clarke clenched her jaw and chose to keep silent. She didn’t see the point in trying to argue with somebody who obviously cared about very little aside from her own pride.

Raven and Anya slid back into the booth, shortly followed by a holler from Octavia, towing Wells behind her, “Guess who just got the lead role!”

Raven turned to the recent arrivals and tapped her chin in thought, “Oh, I don’t know. Tough one, that. You?”

“Ten points to Raven-claw.” Octavia slid on the opposite side of Raven, waving a hand in brief greeting to Anya.

“I’m a Slytherin.” Raven replied indignantly as Octavia slid out of her jacket.

“But you’re not though, are you?” Clarke offered, “You took the Pottermore test 3 times and got Ravenclaw every time. How cliché.”

“Says the Griffin-dor. You’re just as cliché as me.”

“Yes, yes. Very astute of you.” Clarke rested her teeth on her lip. The last thing she needed Lexa to find out was that she was a Griffin – that would give her all the more reason to be an asshole. It didn’t seem she was paying much attention to the conversation, anyway.

Anya appeared amused, but only mildly so, “I never saw the appeal in Harry Potter.”

“Who cares about Harry? I’m all for Molly Weasley. Something about older women, right?” Raven waggled her eyebrows at Anya, who didn’t seem to cotton on for a moment, until…

“Cheeky bugger.” She retorted, “I am _not_ old.”

Raven just scoffed, “Who said I was talking about you, Crainn? I’m all about Clarke’s mum.”

Clarke wrinkled her nose, “Can we not?” 

“She has a point.” Wells shrugged, sitting on the other side to Clarke, “I mean, obviously, you had to get your looks from somewhere, right?” He amended.

Ignoring him, Clarke turned the attention back onto Raven once again, “You know, for somebody who swears she’s straight, Raven, you’re the gayest person I know, and remind me never to let you and my mother in a room together.”

She just smiled ruefully, “I’m still in denial. Maybe you can help me construct a good ‘coming out’ scene.”

“I think Octavia would be more appropriate for theatrics. O, tell us about your new role.”

It helped for a while, listening to the others bounce around stories. It helped Clarke push the darkness away. As she reflected behind a mask of peace, she realised something. The thing that frightened her the most about the darkness was the sudden realisation that it had always been there. She had wrongly believed it to be a new thing, but now she knew it wasn’t. There were just certain things that reminded Clarke of its existence, and one of them was sitting right next to her.

“You’re wrong, you know.” Lexa’s voice sifted through the low babble of voices, reaching Clarke’s reluctant ears. She chose not to beg an explanation and waited for one to come to her instead.

It took a little longer than expected, but eventually Lexa expanded.

“I can afford very little.”

Confused, again, Clarke allowed herself an uncertain look into Lexa’s expression. Calm. Collected. A blank slate. Annoyingly, she betrayed no chink in her armour.

“Are we still talking in metaphors, or…?” 

This time, it seemed Lexa had trodden into depths where she could not reach the surface. Quietly, she retreated back into herself, running her fingertip around the rim of her glass, although she’d barely drunk a drop.

“Anyway, before Raven loses all her inhibitions, I ought to be making my excuses.”

Lexa was quick to respond to the beginning of Anya’s farewell. Already on her feet, she slid out from the table and waited a little way away for her tutor. Clarke didn’t bother to say goodbye to her. She just smiled at Anya, raising her hand off the table surface in place of a wave, “See ya.”

It seemed Anya offered her a half-apologetic shrug, probably on behalf of her tutee, “Bye, Clarke.”

It wasn’t much later on in the evening that Clarke decided she’d had enough of bloating herself on beer, and took herself off back to her apartment. Already, she couldn’t wait for Wells’ Battle of the Bands to be over so she could lose herself in lumping raw materials into something beautiful again.

Then again, what excuse would she have after that to listen to the violinist?

Maybe she wouldn’t need one. Surely, there would be no harm in continuing her little routine at the Soundhouse, perhaps without Wells and his band.

Music, after all, was created to be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the interest already. I'm very excited about this story and hope you are, too. Please shout at me - I love hearing your thoughts.  
> Alternatively, find me on Tumblr as the-lady-of-cythera. I don't do many exciting things on there, but I will always get back to you.


	3. Chapter 2 - Dolly Parton at a Masquerade

The violin composition itself was nothing short of a masterpiece. Lexa had spent almost all waking hours pouring her entirety into the music. It sang such heartbreakingly desperate notes, dying for somebody, anybody, to hear beyond the beauty and see instead the pain.

She reached the final bar, trailing her bow delicately into a mournful silence. With fingers throbbing from pushing relentlessly against the strings, Lexa attempted to control the aching collapse in her chest. It was an exhausting piece to play. She could understand exactly why Jake Griffin had left it unfinished. Perhaps it brought him too much enervation to complete.

Carefully, she flicked through the pages, searching for any dynamics she might’ve missed, or notes she’d phrased incorrectly. Instead, her eyes landed on the subtext of the final page in the manuscript. The words were small, enough to mistake them for copyright stipulations.

_It comes from the look in her eyes; the sorrow. I cannot reach her. I wish I could. I wish this would. But it never did. It was never her desire. It was mine, and yet, the thing that was my desire became my duty. What I thought to be my duty quickly became my desire. Bound by my own passion, I became slave to my own success,_

Lexa read over it. Once, twice. It wasn’t enough. She read it again. The inappropriately placed comma at the end of the phrase was symbolic to the rest of the piece. His thoughts were unfinished, just like the music. That part was easy to decipher. The rest of it was harder. She wondered vaguely who the “she” was referred to in the text. Jake’s wife, perhaps? An old flame? It was unreasonable, she knew, to refuse to pick up her bow to play again when she couldn’t fully interpret _why_ the piece was so sorrowful. It wasn’t her place to wonder. It was music and it ought to be interpreted by the performer; it shouldn’t have mattered why it was written in the grand scheme of things. Yet, to Lexa, it did. It mattered. The entire purpose of music was to express, to speak volumes where words could not. It was like he’d given her the reason: _this_ is why he wrote it. Yet, she knew very little about Jake and his personal life. He was glorified, just as his grandfather was, so it was ridiculous to assume she could understand the intricacies of his own life beyond that which was portrayed to the media and to the assembly of his devotees.

Lexa chewed thoughtfully on her lip, lowering herself to the floor to sit cross-legged, her fingertip running along the writing on the manuscript paper. Then, she felt a glimpse of his frustration; the feeling she’d left something incomplete. Her eyes flipped to the notes once more, something settling into place. This wasn’t just about sorrow. This piece was about entrapment, too. Veiled torment. Lexa turned to the end page to read over the words for the ninth time.

_Bound by my passion, I became a slave to my own success_. 

Whoever “she” was, Jake clearly felt a sense of loss, even some self-directed anger because of her. She must have been special. Loss. Anger at oneself. They were both things Lexa could work with. She looked over the entire piece once more, working out exactly how these emotions would slip into place, and it became clearer. Not transparent, but clearer. She played it through, her pulse hammering in confusion, lungs dislodged. It wasn’t right. Still.

After many minutes of studying the depths of the incomplete masterpiece once more, Lexa finally resolved herself to play it again.

And it almost tore her apart.

_That_ was how she knew she was playing it as it was intended to be played.

_That_ was how she knew it wasn’t Jakes’ perspective she related to. It was “hers”.

Her affinity to the unnamed female tightened in her chest. Despite an entire piece being written for her, she remained unseen by the man who held her in such high regard. In a way, Lexa could understand that. People were desperate to see what they wanted to see, and sometimes, that occurred at the expense of others.

Without any forewarning, guilt and anger stabbed her in the stomach. They were uninvited, unexpected, and completely unstoppable. Maybe she needed some distance from the music for now – she had slipped deep into the meaning of it and now she was raw. Whilst open and vulnerable, the thoughts of her recent conversation with Anya’s friend had snaked their way into her head. She could justify her actions perfectly. There was no reason for her to conduct any sort of apology. She owed Clarke nothing. Sure, she had initially chosen to view her as a threat, but it wasn’t without good reason. Maybe she could have been more polite about turning down Clarke’s offer of friendship, but it wasn’t her problem that the confident blonde had got all up-in-arms about it. Besides, the time had passed to resolve that blunder and she really didn’t have the energy to do so, either. Lexa was still resolute to her belief that befriending others would only hinder her in the long-run. She just couldn’t fathom why Clarke had even cared so much about it in the first place. Had she really never experienced rejection in any kind of format before?

So, with all that in mind, why was the distant ache of guilt still crawling in her stomach?

Why now?

Why after all this time?

Shaking from it all, Lexa packed away her violin, the numbness slowly creeping over her skin. She didn’t want to see anybody between now and the next morning. Anya had given her instructions to experience some of the events over that weekend. Apparently, it wasn’t enough just to focus on bullying herself into success; Lexa also had to watch other people do it, too.

The particular event Anya was dragging her to over the weekend was something she already knew she would despise. Anya played the whole thing off as “building character”, and that it would be good to see the way other people performed because she was serious about preparing her for the spotlight. She just put it all down to Anya having a sadistic sense of humour. Understandably, Lexa didn’t find it funny.

Once she had arrived back to her apartment, she picked up the leaflets that had been posted through her door. Nothing particularly interesting. There was some information about the event over the weekend. Not that she had any desire to read it. She placed it in her recycling bin, moving onto the next one. Again, nothing awe-inspiring. Something more directed to the arty crowd. Just as she was about to dispose of it with the other leaflet, something – or someone – caught her eye. She was being used to advertise an upcoming art exhibition. Her hands and wrists were muddy with clay, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, blonde hair pulled into an updo. She wasn’t completely in the image, because the camera was focusing more on the sculpture she was creating, but Lexa knew it was Clarke. Despite having very little to do with art and a limited interest in such creativity, she knew that the sculpture had been carved with talented hands. With no conscious effort to do so, her eyes drifted to those very same hands. The way they paused on the lump of clay becoming the sculpture’s left cheekbone, sure and steady. It was a powerful face, and Lexa had seen it before. It was an exact replica of Clarke’s friend – the male who sat by her frequently at the Orion.

Reminded of the sinking sensation in her stomach she’d experienced earlier, Lexa folded up the leaflet and left it on the side to toss away with the other recycling.

When she was finally ready for bed, she lowered herself onto the mattress, her eyes transfixed on the ceiling. Despite her exhaustion, there was something in her head that just wouldn’t, couldn’t, switch off. Maybe it was the after effects of her practice, of her breakthrough with Jake Griffin’s composition. She wasn’t sure.

Now might’ve been the sort of time a regular person would have turned to their phone to message a friend. She could have done with something to distract her from the faint throb behind her skull. Lexa was aware there were very few people she kept in contact with anymore. Her entire life was dedicated to her career, to her passion. There hadn’t been time to focus on cultivating friendships. Of course, those who she did have any sort of connection to were back in America and would’ve been affected by the time difference.

As the silence swallowed her, Lexa wondered if this was what it felt like to be lonely. Being alone had never scared her. In fact, it was something she valued. But her practice that evening had left something unsewn inside her. For a moment, she’d glimpsed herself through somebody else’s eyes and it left her aching and sore. She rolled onto her side, watching the candle by her bedside as it flickered. For a while, she stared at the flame until it left glowing prints behind her eyelids, and then she eventually slipped away into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning brought some solace, although it didn’t last as long as Lexa might’ve liked. The buzz of the evening’s upcoming event had bubbled quietly in the courtyard for most of the day. She had done her best to ignore it by shutting herself off in the library, but as evening approached, she knew there was little she could do to escape it. She could see the lights streaming from the open-air festival stage in the distance, illuminating the twilight sky. She planned on taking a slow stroll back to her apartment, hoping that Anya would get impatient waiting for her to get ready, and decide to go without her.

Of course, nothing ever went quite to plan.

It was little more than half an hour later when her tutor called her. Lexa strongly considered allowing it to go straight to voicemail, and she would have if she’d thought Anya would have left it at that. However, she was beginning to recognise there was very little opportunity to disagree with Anya. In truth, she wasn’t at all as she’d initially expected. Anya was a powerful figure and well respected, but none of that seemed to matter a great deal to her. The thing Lexa couldn’t help but admire about her the most was her experience. She was wise, and Lexa knew that she would be a fool to dismiss her. The more she thought about it, the less she wanted a different tutor to Anya. She was from a background Lexa understood, and that counted for a lot.

Besides, she was starting to like her.

“Hello?”

“ _Arse. Outside._ ”

Still, Lexa thought, she might’ve enjoyed clipping her around the back of the head. The prospect of that evening filled her with encroaching dread.

“I’ll set off in five minutes and meet you there.”

“ _No need. I’m outside your apartment._ ”

“Oh. You know where I live.” Lexa hung up after this not-so-surprising revelation and headed over to her front door, opening it up to see Anya holding her phone in one hand, back leaning against the wall opposite, dirty blonde hair falling over her shoulders.

“You look ready to me.” She commented, arching an eyebrow to suggest she’d expected nothing less.

Lexa exhaled, “Physically, yes. Mentally, no. Remind me why this is important again.”

Anya sighed and shrugged, “Because I said it is.”

Lexa knew that was probably all she would be getting from Anya, so she didn’t see the harm in teasing her, “Right. So, it’s not just because you’re dying to go to this festival and you don’t have a plus one?”

“I do have a plus one.” She smirked, “You. Now, come on. Enough procrastination. Let’s go.”

Feeling rather like a sulky two-year-old, Lexa reached for her bag and solemnly exited the apartment. Anya simply delighted in her reluctance and gave her a mock-sympathetic pat on the back, “Oh, you’ll survive it, I’m sure.”

She was glad Anya was sure, at least.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Lexa had thought very little of the event thus far. She was vaguely interested in the atmosphere around her, people cheering on the bands, although admittedly she felt a little out of place. She was more used to sit-down concerts and classical music – although that wasn’t to suggest she _didn’t_ appreciate varying types of genre. She just hadn’t consumed quite enough alcohol, and neither had she gotten used to the people bumping into her from all sides. Anya seemed to be taking it all in her stride, watching each band with fluctuating levels of appreciation. Occasionally, she would consult Lexa’s opinion on the music, or on the manner of the performers themselves.

Lexa started to take more notice after that, realising this would be how others viewed her, and decided to take a leaf from Anya’s book to compare each presentation to the other.

“What about these?” Anya asked, as she did whenever a new group surfaced, indicating to the next set emerging onto the stage.

The members were dressed in masquerade outfits, intricately designed masks concealing their features. Lexa was close enough to be able to appreciate the talent gone into the concept, despite acknowledging her lack of artistry herself. Her eyes ran over the silvery mask on the lead singer’s face, deep blue eyes looking out of the gaps onto the audience.

“They’re different.” She stated, although it was impossible to conclude anything further before they had even started performing.

The blonde female at the front slid one hand around the microphone, introducing the other members of the band before pointing to the guitarist standing beside her, expression barely decipherable behind his own silver mask, “‘Just a little event’ he said. Well, let me tell ya, this boy owes me _big_ for this.”

The crowd seemed to find amusement in her words. Lexa felt she was missing out on something.

“The lead singer of the band quit last minute, so she’s just standing in.” Anya explained, noticing the bemusement on Lexa’s face.

“Oh.” She inclined her head, eyes flickering back to the blonde. It then took less than three seconds for the realisation to strike. “ _Oh_.” She said again, this time more quietly to herself, teeth resting atop her lower lip.

The accent, the charming lull of her voice. Of course, it was Clarke and her friend; the one she’d sculpted out of clay on the leaflet. She’d initially thought Clarke looked like a Cali girl. Lexa swore she was exactly that until she’d caught the soft Southern twang in her words when they’d spoken last. It was subtle, smothered almost, and it might’ve been somewhat endearing if she hadn’t recalled the many ways in which Clarke got under her skin.

It surprised her to see Clarke amongst the musicians, although she had previously stated in unenthusiastic tones that music seemed to follow her, rather than the other way around. Lexa vaguely wondered if the masks were a production of her talent.

The rhythm began and Clarke settled into her country confidence, a gentle swagger in her hips, fingers curling around the microphone. Lexa knew the song before the lyrics started. Of course, she would sing _Jolene_. Not that Lexa had any aversion to Dolly Parton. It was just typical of a Southerner to attempt to replicate such an icon. Anya was moving lightly to the rhythm, seemingly unaware of Lexa’s stationary pose. The young woman was waiting, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the blonde as she waited for her lips to shape the first word. Then, the moment Clarke’s voice left her mouth, Lexa found her throat tightening unexplainably. Confused at first, she tried to swallow. The husk of Clarke’s voice carried over the crowds, her foot tapping the rhythm of the drums. She shared a lingering look with the guitarist, smirking playfully at him before she returned her attention to the audience. She hit every single note, effortlessly. Perfectly. It made something crawl over Lexa’s skin. Something she hadn’t felt before. She made every attempt to shake it when the audience thundered a jovial applause.

It was an odd combination. A country song and elegant masks. Yet, Clarke was the first to point it out.

“What, y’all never heard Dolly Parton played at a royal masquerade ball before?” She laid the accent on thick, presumably for comedic value, and the audience responded positively to her natural charisma. She went on to pass the time interacting with the crowd as the band members swapped their instruments and re-tuned up. Lexa had almost forgotten that she’d seen this side of Clarke the very first time they’d met. Since then, Clarke had shut off any kind of warmth towards her, not that she had any desire to be a recipient of that warmth again. It had annoyed her the first time and it likely would have annoyed her again.

“So, you really did just want a plus one to watch your friend.” Lexa commented to Anya who just grinned, shrugging.

“You’ve seen through the mask, then?”

Lexa tilted her head to one side, feigning disinterest, “Mm.”

“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t.” Anya sighed, “Because now you’ll be in a sour mood for the rest of the evening.”

“As opposed to before when I was leaping for joy?” She returned, “Why didn’t you bring that other girl? Clarke’s friend? She’d have been better company than me, and you might even have gotten laid afterwards.”

“Raven?” Anya scoffed, “I doubt my husband would approve. I imagine she will be watching with the others, anyway.”

“Wait, you’re married?”

Her tutor shrugged, “Loosely.”

Lexa had no idea what that meant. She found herself more confused than ever, but had very little time to delve into the questions surrounding Anya’s personal life as the music started up once more. It carried a different tone altogether. Slow. Almost sensual.

“ _I still watch you when you’re groovin’… as if through water from the bottom of a pool… you’re movin’ without movin’, and when you move, I’m moved…_ ”

Lexa still caught the twang in her accent, still saw the way her eyes drifted languidly over the faces in front of her. Her body shifted as she sang, hips rocking gently to carry the beat. For one reason or another, Lexa couldn’t look away.

“ _So, move me, baby. Shake like the bough of a willow tree. You do it naturally. Mo-o-o-o-o-ve me, baby._ ” Her gloved hand slid down the microphone stand, gripping the metal as she reached for the higher notes. It took everything Lexa had not to crumble at the knees. She watched, tentatively, as though the thing she was feeling might break at any moment.

Then, Clarke’s eyes grazed over her and Lexa felt her lungs deflate. It was unlikely that her gaze actually delayed on hers the way it looked like it did.

Her cheeks burned, and she caught herself grateful that Anya hadn’t noticed, or she probably wouldn’t have heard the end of it. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for it to be over. Finally, when it was, Lexa was able to regulate her breathing.

Anya studied her, discreetly, “You alright?”

“Yes.”

“You look like you need a drink.”

Lexa agreed with her observation, whole-heartedly, “I probably do.”

“Well, I’m planning on meeting up with the others at the Orion when this is finished. Do you want to come?”

Lexa considered this for a prolonged moment, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Look, Lexa, I never meant to scare you.” She grabbed her arm, lightly, “I didn’t want you to _fear_ friendships with other people. I just want you to be careful.”

“It’s okay.” Lexa exhaled, quietly. “I, I’m not very good at making friends, anyway.”

Anya let her sharp gaze pin Lexa’s in place for a lengthy few seconds, “Listen, I was wrong about you at first. I was worried you’d fall into the wrong crowd. You’re unique, attractive, and most people would do just about anything that could get them a life sentence just to have your talent. That makes you vulnerable in a place like this, okay? But, thankfully, you’re smart, and even charming when you want to be. You have enough about you to figure out if somebody is trying to pull one over on you. The purpose of me bringing you to these events is so you can learn _how_ you want to behave in the public eye. Everybody needs a persona to be noticed, okay? Now’s the time for you to start figuring yours out. Maybe it would be a good thing for you to practice talking to people.”

“So, you’re saying I should do the exact opposite of what you told me to do in the first place?” Lexa’s confusion increased, as it so often did when she was speaking with Anya. Usually, things would start to make sense eventually, so she’d learned to trust Anya’s judgement. But there was always that seed of doubt in the back of her mind.

“I think you know I’m not suggesting you befriend every Tom, Dick and Harry you come across.”

“I don’t know any Toms or Harrys.”

“Just plenty of Dicks?”

“More than enough.” Lexa returned.

“Funny.” Anya pushed the conversation further, starting to pull the two of them out of the crowds, “Networking is a good thing. One day, you’re going to outgrow me, you know. You’ll surpass me.” Anya spoke the words so matter-of-fact that Lexa almost thought she was mocking her, “But until you get to that point, there’s still a lot for you to learn and I’m going to teach you everything I can. That includes how to make good connections with the right people.”

“So, in a roundabout way, this is you saying I _should_ come out for a drink.”

With a catlike smile, Anya inclined her head, “I’m glad we got there in the end.”

The Orion was packed with people, and Lexa found herself automatically avoiding contact with any of them. Anya led her straight to the bar, jumping the queue to the front. Nobody complained. Lexa knew Anya had several privileges as a tutor and she never hesitated to use them at the best of times.

“What are you drinking?”

“Jameson.” Lexa answered, “Straight.”

Soon enough, Lexa had the tumbler pushed into her hand and Anya managed to lead them through the waves of bodies to a large table where Clarke’s friends were gathered. Neither her nor the guitarist were there just yet, and Lexa found herself thankful for that, at least.

Raven was on her feet and swanning over to Anya before she had even announced her presence.

“Come on, grab a seat.” She shoved the two of them into the booth, evidently already tipsy. Lexa obediently took a seat, feeling drastically out of place. She wasn’t sure why she’d allowed Anya to convince her this would be a good idea. These weren’t the sort of people she would likely benefit from networking with, anyway.

But, out of respect for Anya, she decided to at least make an effort to be civil.

She politely observed the interactions between the group of people seated at the table. She didn’t recognise them all. She knew Raven and Octavia, but she hadn’t seen the others before.

“John.” Anya was nodding curtly at a gentleman sat opposite, a pissy expression on his features. There was something eccentric about him, but not overtly inflated. Lexa figured he was most likely an artist, too. He looked the type. Plus, he seemed about as overjoyed to be amongst other people as she was.

“Anya.” He returned, exposing a set of white teeth. He had the sort of facial structure an artist might’ve liked to recreate. Cheekbones, full lips, a heavy brow, clear skin, devil-may-care hairstyle. His eyes drifted to Lexa and he raised an eyebrow, a sudden understated charm playing with his features, “And you are?”

Anya scoffed, turning to Lexa, “Don’t tell him anything. He’ll only end up poaching you.”

Lexa wasn’t sure what Anya meant by that – as usual.

“She’s right.” He extended a hand forward to her, “John Murphy.”

Lexa received his handshake, saying nothing. This only caused him quiet amusement, “You have her trained well, Anya.”

“Let me introduce him before he goes on to discuss how important and up his own arse he is. John Murphy is to Clarke what I am to you, but not as good. Or as attractive. Also, if you listen to him for longer than sixty seconds, his ego will fill your head and you’ll develop a degenerative disorder that will eventually kill you.”

John rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair to run his finger around the rim of his glass, “Not as attractive.” He scoffed, “Don’t listen to that tripe.”

“I’m more concerned about the degenerative disorder, I think.” Lexa commented, taking a sip of her whisky, “So, why would he try and poach me? Art isn’t my forte.”

“Your face. The eyes mostly.” John supplied.

John was more confusing than Anya.

“You’re his type.” She sighed, “Give him half a chance and he’d have you sat in his freaky little warehouse for hours on end so he could paint you like one of his French girls, or something.”

“I’m sure you look simply breath-taking naked, but it’s your face I want.” He shrugged, “And don’t let Anya scare you. She’s just afraid you’ll like me better.”

Lexa didn’t feel as uncomfortable as she might’ve expected to. Perhaps she was grateful for the distraction. In a way, she was avoidant of returning back to her apartment in light of her feelings the previous night. She didn’t want the loneliness to return.

“Seriously, though, if you ever feel inclined to lend me your beauty, contact me.” He slid a business card across the table towards her, “I’m willing to pay.”

Lexa almost considered putting the business card away and avoiding any sort of continuation of the conversation, but decided now was the time to start to follow Anya’s advice. She simply glanced down at the card, almost dismissively, before she drew her gaze back to John’s.

“Pay me what? Money?” She didn’t spread the arrogance too thickly. She didn’t want him to know she was bluffing.

“You don’t like money?” He asked, curiously. Disbelievingly.

“I mean, sure, everybody likes money. But I can think of things that hold more interest to me.” She shrugged, casually.

“Such as?” His interest was piqued.

Lexa decided now was the time to get her foot in the door of networking. If John Murphy was as powerful a figure as Anya, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure he remembered her. Even if he was an artist.

“That’s not important right now.” Unblinkingly, she kept her gaze fixed intently on John’s, “I’m not sure you’d be the right person to owe me, anyway. We specialise in totally different areas.”

It was a subtle dig at his ego. She’d said it without contempt; an offhanded comment. It had _exactly_ the effect she’d intended.

“Maybe you’d be surprised.”

Lexa allowed a flicker of curiosity to pass over her stare, just enough to encourage him to continue.

“Look,” he pushed the card even closer to her, glancing briefly in the direction of the new arrivals, “just think about it. I feel pretty confident we can work something out that suits you.”

“Alright.” She conceded, finally, “I’ll think about it. Just so long as I don’t start developing symptoms of this degenerative disorder Anya was talking about.” She offered John the hint of a smile, finally taking his card and slipping it into her bag, barely even looking at the details.

“I offer vaccinations, don’t worry.” He flashed a well-practiced smile.

Anya caught Lexa’s wrist underneath the table and she turned, catching the subtle nod of approval from her tutor. Perhaps she could turn out to be okay at this, after all.

She knew it was Clarke who’d arrived, and she felt her chest do something uncomfortable, the tightness passing into her stomach. Lexa kept quiet, hoping to phase into the background, but she could feel Clarke’s eyes pass over her – very much in the same way that they had done at the music event. With an unreadable expression, she glanced between Lexa and John for no more than a second, before she returned her attention to her friends.

“Wells, congrats for not messing up,” Octavia patted him on the shoulder, pushing a drink into his hand, “much.”

“Gee, thanks, O.”

“Any time.”

Lexa chose that moment to finish her drink, “I’m going to the bar. Do you want anything?” She asked Anya, softly.

“Beer.”

She nodded and eased out from the table, sliding into the crowds to make her way to the bar. She made a point of looking beyond Clarke and the way her silvery dress clung to her figure. Temperature wise, it was far warmer amongst the crowds of people than it was back at the table, but for some reason, she found her body cooling down instead.

It took a while to get served, but she was more than happy to wait. With drinks in hand, Lexa stepped away from the bar to make her way begrudgingly back to the table, wondering why she’d decided to go along with this. It was harder to make a path back as more people piled into the pub, so when she found herself pressed between bodies, face to face with Clarke, she felt understandably frustrated.

The azure of her stare was cloudy, and Lexa wondered if she was berating herself internally too. Eventually, Clarke seemed to lose whatever battle she was having in her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Lexa got there first.

“I saw your performance.”

“I know.” Clarke replied, clipped.

“You know?”

“I – yeah, I saw you. With Anya.”

Lexa’s eyelids flickered in surprise, but she kept her stare as impassive as she could, “Really?”

She just rolled her eyes, “I’m not blind, Lexa. You’re not the sort of person that blends easily into a crowd, you know.”

“I feel quite blended in this crowd.”

Clarke’s lips parted without warning and she looked, just for a fraction of a second, as if she might have laughed. The expression was quickly replaced with the look Lexa had grown accustomed to seeing; an air of irritation, of boredom. Lexa might have been convinced she was as despondent as she wanted to be perceived had there not been a blue spark in her eyes. She’d noticed it before. It was always there. Had Clarke known Lexa had noticed, she might’ve worked all the harder to conceal it.

“I didn’t expect to see you there. Or here either, to be honest.” Clarke continued, “Isn’t this sort of thing underwhelming for you?”

“Anya convinced me it would be a good idea.” Lexa bypassed Clarke’s snide remark.

“She’s good at doing that.”

“Something I’m learning quickly.”

“Evidently not quick enough.”

It was a fast back-and-forth. Almost natural. That realisation alone was enough to make things unsettling between them once more. There wasn’t a great deal either of them could do except try not to make awkward eye contact and hope that the crowds would start to wear thin within the next thirty seconds so they could get to their intended destinations.

“Evidently.” Lexa echoed thoughtfully, her eyes drifting back to Clarke’s, “Your voice. I–”

“–It’s fine. I really don’t expect somebody of your calibre to condescend to offer me critique. As a rule, I usually avoid singing, so…” She was bitter, and severely misinformed if she believed Lexa to be of a particular “calibre”.

“I see.” She hadn’t been planning on critiquing Clarke in any way, shape or form. She was shocked Clarke had assumed she was. So, instead, she aimed for a different tact, “Are you heading to the bar?” She asked, knowing the only way Clarke would be able to get to the bar would be if she squeezed past her, and she wasn’t sure that would be a particularly comfortable experience for either of them.

“That _was_ the plan.” She answered shortly, pushing a gentleman out of her way so she could take a step away from Lexa, obviously deciding to try and make it back to the table.

“Here.” Lexa necked her whisky and passed the pint intended for Anya to Clarke, “Have this instead.”

Clarke glanced down at the beer in confusion. When she looked up, Lexa was searching for a route out of the pub.

“You’re leaving?” She didn’t sound remotely disappointed. It could have passed off as a suggestion, rather than a question.

Lexa glanced over her shoulder briefly, “Have a good evening, Clarke.” She said softly, choosing not to prolong the difficult conversation between them any longer. Somehow, she managed to push her way through the mass of drunkards and reach the door without too much issue.

Finally, the air hit her chest and she could breathe.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that Clarke ran in strong circles. It would have been smart to get to know her. That much was clear. Anya, of course, continued to be confusing about the whole situation and divulged very little information on _who_ Lexa should be networking with. John Murphy was probably a good start. Clarke had made it clear she took things personally, and it was for that reason Lexa decided it would be a bad idea to form any kind of alliance with her. She would be able to manipulate her relationship with John. It had been made obvious from the start that they both wanted something from the other. That was an easy transaction to make. That was the sort of relationship Lexa understood. Clarke, on the other hand, was hard to decode and probably even harder to fool. With that in mind, Lexa concluded that she ought to avoid building any kind of bridges between them. Neither of them had anything to gain from the other, and therefore their similarities and confusing chemistry were best left unexplored. Besides, Clarke had made it all too transparent that she had no intention of being civil, even when they were literally trapped in the same space together.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“Where have you been?” John Murphy glanced over at Clarke as she perched herself between him and Octavia, concealing a smirk as the drummer of Wells’ band desperately tried to chat his way into her pants.

“Stuck in an awkward body warp somewhere between here and the bar.” Clarke shrugged, ignoring Octavia’s pleading tug on her sleeve.

“Did you see Lexa on your travels?” Anya asked, “She went to get me a pint like an hour ago.”

Clarke glanced down at the half empty glass in her hand, “Ah, your apprentice left. I now assume this was supposed to be for you.”

Anya wrinkled her nose, “Thief. Did she say why she was going?”

“I didn’t ask.” She shrugged, passing the rest of the pint over to the musician, “You might as well have the rest.”

“Oh, thanks. I love a bit of backwash.”

“Especially mine.”

“You know, Murphy’s quite taken with her.” Anya remarked, accepting the leftover of the beer, knowing it would be fruitless to attempt any sort of access to the bar at this point.

“She’s definitely your type.” Clarke muttered to him, not without a trace of malice.

“I mean, I already know she is, but I’m curious to know why _you_ think she is.”

She stole a sip of his drink and smiled innocently, “Let me guess. It’s her _eyes_.” She feigned a swoon.

“I assumed it was her arse.” Anya interjected.

John just groaned, “Actually, yes. To the eyes, I mean. Although, her arse is a commendable asset, too. That being said, it might be difficult for you to understand, Anya, but this is _not_ a sexual thing. Come on, Clarke. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at her face and imagined capturing it somehow.”

“That’s what we do with every face we ever look at, John. It’s an artist’s curse.”

“Yes, but I want _her_ face.”

“You’ve always had a soft spot for the conceited ones.” Clarke added.

She could feel Anya’s gaze on her and glanced up to see her angle her head to one side, appearing as though she might say something in defence of her student.

“Do you think she _would_ model for me?” John asked, before she could say anything.

Anya just occupied herself with the beer in the end, glancing away coyly.

“Crainn.” He must have nudged her under the table with his foot because her body jerked as she flipped an angry glare in his direction over the rim of the pint glass.

“God’s sake. _I_ don’t know.” She placed down the empty glass firmly, “Honestly, I’m not sure she’d find the time. It’s not exactly thrilling for her, is it?”

“Then you can find her the time.” He leaned over the table, giving her an award-winning smile. One that had gotten him into far too much trouble in the past – but equally, one that had gotten him out of trouble just as many times.

“She will only do it if she wants to. She knows her own mind, and it takes a _lot_ of skill to persuade her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“Is that a skill you have?” John asked.

“God, no. It’s in my job-description to tell her what to do, but whether she will do it or not is another matter entirely.”

Clarke thought about this. Lexa had blamed her own presence on Anya that evening. Judging by what the music tutor was suggesting, it seemed more like Lexa had _wanted_ to be there. In retrospect, it was Clarke who had been rude to Lexa tonight. Not the other way around. Lexa had only chosen to leave _after_ speaking with her.

Goddammit.

She had condemned Lexa for her behaviour, and yet she had behaved in exactly the same manner. If not worse.

But why was the musician there? Was it her superior way of trying to apologise? Or was she just accompanying Anya to be polite? Clarke groaned internally. Polite. Lexa had been polite. Clarke rarely dropped social propriety and yet, for one reason or another, she had disregarded it altogether.

“Okay, so more importantly, is it a skill _I_ can get?” John still hadn’t dropped it, yet.

Anya rolled her eyes, “Oh, my god. Any time you ask me to do something, I want to do the complete opposite, so I doubt it.”

“Maybe I could use that to my advantage.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a personalised hipflask, resorting to drink from that instead of trying to get to the bar, “Reverse psychology and all that.”

Clarke phased out of the conversation, deciding she’d heard enough about Lexa for one evening.

Octavia was grateful for Clarke’s sudden availability and she consequently grabbed her arm, “Jasper has had one too many, I think.”

“Jasper _is_ one too many.” Clarke agreed, glancing around her friend to see the inebriated young gentleman land his forehead on the table, “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You were hot tonight, by the way. The masks looked amazing.” Octavia changed the subject, grateful for Jasper’s silence, “Are you going to make it a regular thing?”

She shook her head, “It was a one-off.”

Wells slid a bottle of beer down the table to Clarke’s hand, catching wind of the conversation topic, “It’s a shame. You dominated it tonight.”

“Ooh, say ‘dominate’ again.” Raven teased, squeezing her way back from the bar to sit between Anya and Wells.

He chose to ignore her request and exhaled, “What about if we get through to the final, though?”

“The final? Nobody said anything about a final.” Clarke laughed, “That _was_ the final. At least, it was my final anyway.”

“I’d definitely watch you again. You gripped that microphone stand like it was a dick. Ten out of ten, would watch your sex tapes.” Raven grinned, “Wait, what? I mean, I would watch your music videos.”

“Ray, what…?” Clarke didn’t even have time to process what she’d said before Wells spoke up again.

“Clarke, seriously, you were unreal. We wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“It was fun, Wells, but I’ve already told you I’m not going any further with it.”

Anya was watching with interest, choosing to keep silent as Wells continued to gush over Clarke’s performance.

“Can you all stop trying to corrupt her, please?” John narrowed his eyes at Wells, “Especially you, Jaha. She did you a favour, so don’t make her regret it or I’ll get upset and nobody wants that.”

Wells considered retaliating, but saw the look on Clarke’s face and decided against it, opting for peace instead, “I’m not trying to pressure her into it. I just want her to know she did amazing.”

John blinked, almost offended that Wells had the audacity to actually speak back to him directly, “Yeah. She’s not stupid. She knows. We all know. But she’s made herself clear, so get your dirty, perverted, musical little fingers off her, yeah?”

Clarke could sense Wells annoyance from across the table and she chose to drink her beer, extracting herself from the conversation. She knew John had never thought much to Wells, except to acknowledge his physical structure. But even then, he was never enamoured with the idea of the guitarist being a model for her artwork. John was very selective with his own models and Wells apparently didn’t possess the criteria to meet his standards.

“Somebody probably needs to get Jasper home.” She commented, hoping for a subject change.

The bassist, Monty, piped up from the end of the table reluctantly, “That somebody tends to be me.” He sighed, “Can somebody chuck him over?”

Octavia nudged him with her elbow, “Hey, buddy. Time to get up.”

“Maybe you should flash a tit.” Clarke suggested, “That usually gets you what you want.”

Raven snorted from the other side of the table. 

It took an interesting amount of manoeuvring to parcel Jasper off to Monty, and Clarke found herself rather exhausted herself, “I’ll come out with you, Monty.”

“You’re going?” Octavia pouted, “We didn’t even get around to tequila, yet.”

“Hence why I’m making an executive decision to get gone now before that debacle ensues.” She gave her brief goodbyes to the table before she managed to clear a way for Monty and Jasper to stumble through. She was grateful for the night air that cooled her throat as she breathed in.

It had been a peculiar night; one she was keen to see the back of.

It was only when she was back in her apartment that she glanced at her phone, seeing a missed call from her mother. She returned the call, feet pulled up onto the sofa, settling back into the cushions.

“ _Hi, sweetie_.”

“Hey, mom.” Clarke settled back into the cushions, “How are you?”

There was a brief silence as Abby Griffin considered her answer, “ _Oh, you know_.” She said, eventually.

Clarke waited because, actually, she didn’t know. She had barely had any contact from her family in the last few weeks. The unsteadiness of her mother’s voice suggested that things weren’t as good as she’d hoped they would be.

“ _They’re, they’re okay_.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” Clarke commented.

Abby exhaled, gently, “ _I just miss my baby girl, that’s all. We all do._ ”

She lowered her head onto the chair arm, stretching her legs out across the span of the settee, “I know. I miss you all, too. But, hey, just think it’s only a couple of months until the Proms. So, we’ll all be together before you know it.”

Her mother accepted this after a moment, “ _You’re right. Not long, baby._ ”

“Or, you could come across with Dad to the auditions?” Clarke had always found herself bound by a sense of duty to ease the suffering of others. It was something she’d learned from her mother, “They’re in a couple of weeks, aren’t they? We could have a girly day out and experience London, or something?” 

“ _Well, honey, the thing is… Dad isn’t going to the auditions. He’s taken too much on. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to leave Madi on her own_.”

Clarke frowned, her head raising off the chair-arm, “He’s not coming? What has he taken on?”

“ _If I was only so blessed to know_.” She muttered, distastefully, “ _Honestly, I don’t know. Some project or other. You know how he gets._ ”

Clarke _did_ know how he got. He would lose himself so frequently in his career and projects that he would forget time was a very real concept. Of course, he was an incredible father when he was present, and Clarke knew how much he loved her and her younger sister. How much he loved her mom. She just also knew that he had to divide his commitments in such a manner that left the rest of them a little lost for weeks on end. Abby had often relied heavily on Clarke during those periods, and she felt it the most when Clarke wasn’t there.

“ _But don’t worry about all that. I was just thinking about you, that’s all. Things aren’t the same when you’re not here._ ”

“I know, I am pretty great.” Clarke teased, pleased she was able to evoke a laugh from her mother at last, “If I could, I’d come and see you before the Proms.”

“ _I know you would. Have you got a lot on?_ ”

“Yeah. I mean, Murphy has delegated me to run a small exhibition, so that’s a pretty big step. I’m also trying to finish up a few projects, one for his next big exhibition, but I’ve been helping Wells out with his music stuff, so I’ve not had much time for that. Plus, in my spare time I’ve agreed to start tutoring a kids’ art class. Things are pretty busy for the next couple of months.”

“ _John isn’t going too hard on you, is he?_ ”

“No.” Clarke laughed, “He’d be too afraid of the repercussions. He knows you’d come and beat the shit out of him.”

“ _He isn’t wrong about that_.” Abby agreed, and Clarke could tell she was smiling by the sound of her voice, “ _You’re eating and sleeping okay, aren’t you?_ ”

“Yes, mom.”

“ _You’re looking after yourself properly?_ ”

“Yes, mom. Promise.”

“ _And you’re being safe with, you know, your… your ladies and gentlemen, and whatnot?_ ”

Clarke’s eyes widened significantly, “Okay! On that note, I’m going to excuse myself to bed.”

“ _Well, I’m just saying be careful_.”

“Yeah – yep. Okay. Bye. Love you, Mom.”

“ _Love you, sweetheart_.”

Clarke hung up promptly, glancing at the time. She dropped a quick message to Madi as she prepared herself for bed.

_To: Madi [00:07]_

_Everything good at home?_

_From: Madi [00:09]_

_Just the usual. Why, are you okay?_

_To: Madi [00:10]_

_Yeah. Mom called, that’s all. Dad at home, or?_

_From: Madi [00:11]_

_He’s out. Hardly seen him all month_

Clarke sighed, quietly. She couldn’t shake the guilt that wrapped around her stomach. She wanted to be there for her mom and for her younger sister, but she was in a completely different continent, doing the exact same routine as her dad.

_To: Madi [00:13]_

_I’m sorry, Mads._

_From: Madi [00:13]_

_Ain’t your fault. Miss you tho_

_To: Madi [00:14]_

_Miss you too. You managing your studies ok? When are your exams finished?_

_From: Madi [00:15]_

_Easy. Couple of months. Pissed that they won’t be over in time for the Proms auditions but maybe next year_

_To: Madi [00:17]_

_No doubt, kid. You’ll be here for the actual thing, so_

_From: Madi [00:18]_

_Yeah_

_Is it true the legal age for drinking is 18??_

_To: Madi [00:18]_

_Yep but you still got 3 months yet_

_Anyway, Mads, keep me in the loop with mom and dad. I gotta get some kip. Love ya, kid x_

_From: Madi_

_Kip? The brits are rubbing off on you. Love you x_

Clarke plugged her phone on charge as she slid into bed, her eyes finally closing. She did miss her family, especially her sister. Sure, she was worried about Madi’s home life considering all she was focused on was studying and dealing with the dynamics between their parents. But the thing that worried her even more was the knowledge that one day Madi would get to Arcadia and it was going to change everything. Either for better, or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sharing your thoughts so far. I value each of them. Please don't hesitate to keep shouting, whether it's here or on Tumblr. Already you have all been so helpful and supportive.  
> You can find me on Tumblr as the-lady-of-cythera. I don't do many exciting things on there, but I will always get back to you.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Artists' Playground

“ _Lexa_.”

“Alie.”

There was a brief silence on the receiving end of the telephone. Lexa waited for her Aunt to get to the purpose of her call.

“ _I tried to call you the other day._ ”

“Yes. I know.” Lexa responded, placing the phone on speaker so she could go about preparing her lunch for the day without too much time delay.

“ _Any reason you didn’t answer?_ ”

“I’ve been busy.”

Lexa hated her Aunt’s voice, how smooth and mechanical it sounded. Like an oiled machine. There was nothing there, no warmth. There never really had been. There could have been a thousand reasons why Lexa had avoided her call. Any of them sufficed.

“ _In other words, you were just being rude_.”

Precisely.

“Was there a reason behind your call?” She asked, deciding to get straight to the point.

“ _Just checking you’re still alive_.”

Lexa said nothing.

“ _I was wondering if you’re planning on visiting any time soon_.”

Lexa clipped her Tupperware box closed and leaned against the kitchen counter, “No. Why?”

“ _I’m going away to the Maldives and I needed somebody to keep an eye on the house for me while I’m gone._ ”

“Well,” Lexa replied, “That would be quite difficult to do from London.”

“ _London? You’re still there?_ ”

Alie had never particularly respected Lexa’s passion for music, and she hadn’t shown any interest in her sister’s passion either.

“Yes.”

“ _Oh. Well, when do you come back to America?_ ”

“Not in time for your trip to the Maldives.” She returned, with an expression to match her Aunt’s.

Alie paused on the other end of the telephone, as if to consider how to proceed with the conversation now her reason for the call was no longer validated, “ _Can you even still afford to live out there?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _How much debt have you gotten yourself in just for the sake of playing a few strings?_ ” She didn’t ask in an accusatory manner. She remained cold and calculated, as though Lexa’s response would be of little consequence.

“None.”

“ _So, you don’t need me to send you any money across._ ”

Lexa felt her stomach churn, “No, I’m fine.”

She didn’t need Alie to have anything else to hold over her.

“ _Okay. How are you earning?_ ”

“Soliciting.”

“ _Lexa!_ ”

She wanted to state that it didn’t matter. None of it did. Not to Alie. But that would only make the conversation go on for longer than necessary, so she conceded. 

“I have enough savings from my mother and from my performances back in the US. I will be earning from more performances in the next few weeks.”

“ _Performances?_ ” Alie didn’t need to ask it in a manner for Lexa to know she was looking down her nose at her response, “ _Like what?_ ”

“I auditioned for the Arcadian Proms and I was accepted. If you don’t mind, Alie, I have a class to get to with my tutor. Perhaps you can watch the Proms on the television from your hotel room in the Maldives.”

“ _It’s going to be televised?_ ” Her interest piqued.

“Have a good day, Alie.” Lexa hung up without giving her Aunt any further opportunity to attempt a farewell.

Now Lexa had been acknowledged as a future performer in the Arcadian Proms, her popularity had increased amongst those within her sector, as Anya had stated it probably would. It meant she had to exercise more caution when meeting new people, because popularity wasn’t always a good thing. People were happy for others to have talent, so long as it didn’t overshadow their own. Those she had performed against in the auditions had not initially considered Lexa a threat. That was largely to do with her lack of international status prior to her Arcadian membership.

Now, things were different.

“So…” Anya leaned against the grand piano in the practice room whilst Lexa packed away her violin, “How’s the networking going?”

“It isn’t.” She responded, “I’ve spent all my time here or in the library, really.”

“People are asking me about you, you know.”

Lexa gave a mild nod of her head, suggesting she was already aware of this detail.

“God, I’ve ruined you already. This is why I should never have kids.”

She considered expressing to her tutor that her own social skills had never been especially refined, but that would only encourage further discussion about Lexa’s interaction with others. As it happened, though, Anya seemed set on continuing it anyway.

“It can be difficult to be in the limelight, okay? But ignoring the light altogether will only make things worse. You need to start taking some positive steps forwards.”

Sliding her music into the front of her case, Lexa raised her head to observe her tutor carefully. She was right. She knew she was.

“Look, you’ve performed in front of thousands of people without blinking. It’s time to start getting to know those people. This period is crucial, Lexa. It’s _crucial_. While people are impressed and threatened by you, they’re waiting to see what you’ll do next so they can decide whether to respect you or drag you down. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know, Anya.” Lexa avoided losing her temper the way she felt she might, and managed to keep her voice even, “I’ve never been in this situation before.”

“Yes, that’s why you have me.” A faint smile pulled at her lips, a reminder that she had gone through this herself, “So, instead of spending all your time avoiding people in the library, start flashing that rare-as-hell smile and get people to notice you beyond your violin, okay?”

“Okay.” Lexa agreed, seriously.

Anya waited… and waited.

“Right, so you’re reserving your smile for a more appropriate time, I get it.” She nodded, “Anyway, look, I was impressed with how you handled John Murphy the other night. Have you considered contacting him?”

“I have considered it. Although, I am not altogether sure how it would benefit me.”

Anya pushed back from the piano, giving a reasonable nod of her head, “Art is, you know, it’s whatever. Murphy, though, he has connections with everyone. I mean, he has a connection with me for a start. No, I’m not stroking my own ego, but it needs to be acknowledged that people on my level have influence.” She stated it in such a matter-of-fact way that Lexa found she respected her all the more for it, “He gets around a bit. In every sense of the statement. People know who he is. Plus, how can it hurt to have your face show up in one of his exhibitions?”

Lexa thought about it. Perhaps it would be a start. If she wanted to get to where Anya was one day, she would have to step out of her comfort zone sometimes. Perhaps most of the time. If not all of the time.

“Familiarity is key to priming people to like you. The more people see a product, AKA you, the more they will accept that product. It’s a classic marketing tool. Besides, as for your competitors, having people afraid of you isn’t a bad thing. Just don’t let it get on top of you.”

Lexa had never particularly cared who liked her or who didn’t. It was inconsequential. Or, at least, it had been in the past, but Anya was correct. She had to gain favour with an audience to further her own career, even if that audience was going to be the toughest crowd she’d ever had to face. She would need to step out of herself in ways that she knew she never had before.

This was going to be her test, and she likely wouldn’t get the opportunity for a resit.

.::.::.::.::.::.

The Arthouse was as Anya had once depicted it to be; a large warehouse, with the deceptive appearance of being somewhat unstable in structure. In actual fact, as Lexa stepped inside, she noted that it was probably the intention of the architects to make it appear as though it may fall down at any given moment, because the interior was accommodatingly modern and… safe. Everything about it was quirky and liberating – exactly what one might expect of an artist’s playground. The fresh scent of paints, wood shavings and linen were overpowering and it took Lexa a moment to adjust to it all as she followed the signs towards her meeting point with Murphy. He was waiting for her outside a large room with a welcoming, white-toothed grin, “I’ll admit, I was worried you wouldn’t show, Miss Woods.”

Lexa inclined her head, choosing her words carefully as she stepped onto a paint-flecked white sheet covering the area of the floor, “I’m a woman of my word.”

“That’s more than I could’ve asked of a musician.” He teased, taking her long black coat from her shoulders and hanging it up by the door, “First time in the artist’s sector?”

“Yes.” She replied, glancing at various materials draping from the high ceiling, and collections of oddments piled into the corners of the room.

“It’s likely not what you’re used to.”

“It’s not so unusual to me. There are just half-used canvases in place of old and broken guitars.” She allowed a glimpse of quietened amusement to touch her lips, although the rest of her expression remained vastly unchanged. She fully intended on being the blank canvas until instructed otherwise.

“I want to begin with a standard painting, Miss Woods. I like to capture my models in their natural state first. Is that alright with you?” He gestured for her to sit on a wooden stool in the centre of the white sheet.

She inclined her head, saying nothing. Truthfully, she didn’t really care how John Murphy painted her.

“Okay, so I want you to sit as you would normally.”

Lexa did as she was instructed, spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Perfect.” Murphy pulled his hair back into a tiny ponytail, the occasional strand falling in front of his face. He sketched the outline on his canvas, holding two different pencils in his teeth whilst he used a third, swapping them around occasionally until he was presumably satisfied with the skeleton of his work, “Okay, look at me for a moment.”

Lexa’s eyes shifted to meet Murphy’s concentrated stare. He nodded his head, smiling widely, “Unbelievable. Unnerving.”

Was that a good thing?

“An artist’s absolute dream.” He continued to mumble a few things to himself, utterly focused on the image he was producing, “It’s okay to blink, you know.” He looked over the top of the easel towards her with an encouraging smile, “Or if you need to move a little, you can.”

Lexa did not react.

His eyebrows raised upwards for a moment, biting down on his lip, and he shared some private joke with himself, “Or not.”

The time passed slowly, and Lexa remained in the same position as she had done since the start.

“Okay, so that’s us done for today.” He tossed his current paintbrush onto the floor and cracked his knuckles, “How many times have you modelled before?”

“I haven’t.”

Murphy laughed, “Right.”

Lexa said nothing further, and watched as his lips fell.

“You haven’t?” He asked, “Really?”

She replied with a marginal shake of her head.

“Bullshit.” He frowned, “Where did you come from?”

Lexa eased off the stool, casually flexing her muscles to encourage the blood flow to return to her limbs, “Washington DC.”

“So, what, you’ve never been asked to do anything like this before?”

Lexa turned her eyes to rest on Murphy’s, “I’ve never accepted before.” She said, carefully.

He looked at her, studiously, “What made you accept now?”

She made it known she wasn’t giving away anything more than she absolutely had to – in fact, her entire persona around John Murphy had begun as a bluff, but she was settling into it far too naturally.

“Is it finished?” She asked, pointedly avoiding his question.

He beckoned her over from the centre of the room, “It’s just the bare bones so far. Needs further work, but I’ll have to wait for the paint to dry first.”

Bare bones, indeed. The image was almost flawless.

“What do you intend on doing with it?”

Murphy tapped his chin lightly, “Well, it depends on what mood grabs me when the paint is dry. But, you know, I was hoping that this wouldn’t be just a one-time thing. I already have a few ideas for next time.”

“Okay, John, we could come to some sort of understanding. I’ll allow you to use me as a model when you need, but I want people to see my face. I want people to know that’s me.”

He angled his head to one side, nodding slowly, “That suits us both. You have the sort of face that begs to be appreciated. People will want to look at you.”

Lexa showed Murphy she accepted this statement but truthfully it came as a surprise.

“I assume you’ll be in touch.” She smoothed down her dress and made her way over to the door. Murphy followed her, taking a hold of her coat and helping her into it.

“Certainly. If you ever need an extra supporter for your concerts, let me know.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you at the Proms.” With a respectful incline of her head, Lexa stepped out of his workshop, finally able to take a deep breath once the door had closed. The fumes of the paint had left her feeling rather light-headed, although she gathered it was something John Murphy was used to.

As she exited his domain, she caught herself examining the various frames hung on the walls down the corridor. She had never particularly understood art, but there was something to be admired in the images she viewed. She approached a particular creation hanging from the wall. There was something about it that made her stop walking. Perhaps it was the fact that the canvas didn’t just have a few colourful blobs on it that were expected to be understood through years of studying. It was simple. Two naked figures wrapped up in a passionate embrace. They were ambiguous and blurry, but their shape was clear. Lexa leaned closer in attempt to determine the finer details of the figures but found herself cut short.

“Didn’t have you pinned as the sort to like looking at scribbles.”

At the sound of the vague Southern husk, Lexa turned, hands still clasped behind her back. Spine, still rigid and straight, fought to remain upright as her eyes met blue. Clarke stood before her, a baggy (presumably once) white shirt hanging from her shoulders, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her skin was barely visible beneath the mix of paint (or sludge?) coating her forearms, and her hair was pulled up high on her head, the occasional rogue lock tickling the sides of her face.

Lexa was cautious. The last time she and Clarke had spoken was at the Orion. She studied the blonde for a prolonged moment, fully expecting an insult to follow. They looked at each other for a spell of quiet, trying to gauge the other’s mood.

“I would ask what you did have me pinned down as, but I imagine I already know the answer to that.” She said, eventually.

Clarke didn’t smile. There was a stretch, Lexa could feel it. An elasticated pull. The months of bitterness that had passed between them rose to the surface, but this time it was different. There was nobody else around that could snap the unbroken stare. Alternatively, Lexa could have made the decision to walk away. Clarke could have chosen to say nothing at all and walk past her, free of notice. It would have been far easier that way. The contempt was raw and heavy. Yet, here they were.

“You say that like I’m the only one to have made assumptions.” Clarke returned Lexa’s stare, almost as evenly. But Clarke was in her comfort zone. She was at home, and therefore she would be unable to hide herself away completely. 

“I acknowledge I made a mistake.”

“Just the one?” She seemed geared for a fight regardless of the situation Lexa found her in.

“But as it happens,” Lexa continued coolly, choosing not to bite back, “you are correct in this assumption. Generally, art isn’t something that interests me.”

It didn’t escape her notice that the young artist had paint on her chin, just beneath the light pout of her lips.

“Suddenly makes sense why you’re here, then.” Clarke folded her arms beneath her breast and leaned against the corridor’s wall, glancing Lexa up and down with subtlety. Lexa had seen her do that before.

She didn’t need to explain herself to Clarke. She wasn’t sure how it would go down if she was to tell the blonde that she was modelling for _her_ tutor. In truth, she wanted to exit the conversation as promptly as possible, not only for her own sake, but for Clarke’s too. Clarke had made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of attempting civility with Lexa, and had no qualms about it making it known either. That wasn’t to suggest Lexa didn’t deserve such treatment, because there was a possibility she did, but something kept her feet rooted to the floor.

“So, I’m correct only in this one assumption?” Clarke pulled her from her thoughts.

“It depends on who you ask.” Lexa quipped, without hesitating, “Some might say I’m bearable, and others might say I’m a holier-than-thou asshole.”

There was something of a reluctant twitch at Clarke’s lips, but that something was quickly pushed away, “Which one is true?”

Lexa managed a small tilt of her head, refusing to break posture, “Neither.”

“So, Lexa, if you don’t like art, why are you here?” It was the first time she’d used her name. It made something prickle behind the violinist’s neck. She felt more as though Clarke was accusing her of something, rather than asking out of interest.

“I got distracted on my way out.” Lexa knew that wasn’t what Clarke meant by her question, but she chose to carry the conversation that way before either of them said something rude.

Unexpectedly, Clarke took a step forward, the scent of arty materials and pleasant perfume touching Lexa’s nose as she examined the image alongside her, “You like it? The painting?” She latched onto the direction of conversation, instead of going against it as Lexa had thought she would.

“As far as scribbles go.”

“I suppose I’ll take what I can get.” She shrugged.

Lexa turned to look at her, considering taking a step back to put some distance between them. At Clarke’s statement, she became distracted from their current proximity and looked at her steadily, instead. The artist’s eyes wandered from the painting and landed back on the musician. For a moment, neither said a word.

Then, Lexa opened her lips, finding her voice, “It’s one of yours?”

“It is.”

Lexa returned her gaze back to the image, about to say something positive, and deciding against it just as her lips shaped the word. The last time she’d attempted to offer Clarke any sort of compliment, she had been put in her place. There were plenty of things she could have said to continue an argument, and a part of her wanted to. She might have done if Clarke hadn’t have finally broken the silence between them, taking a step away from the painting, “Listen,” She took a breath, “I’ve been thinking about the last time I saw you.”

Lexa was shaking her head already, quickly slipping back into the state she was in before, “Don’t, Clarke.”

“Don’t what?” She turned to meet Lexa’s gaze squarely, “Don’t talk about how this entire thing is childish and exhausting? I get you don’t want to make friends while you’re here, and believe me, I don’t particularly want to be your friend either. I think we’re way past even considering that. But we are making this awkward for Anya. Not to mention, it’s draining me.”

“With respect, Clarke, it was you who made an enemy of me. Not the other way around.”

Her jaw slackened, lips parting, “What?”

“I made it clear I didn’t want to make friends. Am I not allowed to do that without being painted as something offensive?”

She laughed, attempting to conceal her rising fury, “There’s something called _manners_ , Lexa.”

With a calm quirk of her brow, the violinist took a marginal step forward, just enough to make the young blonde falter, “It seems neither of us are as familiar with them as we ought to be. Why does it get to you, Clarke?” She asked, evenly, “You said you’ve met people like me before, arrogant assholes, I believe was the term you used. So, why does it bother you that you met another? Surely, you are more than equipped to handle us.”

Clarke attempted to regulate her temperature, hoping for Lexa to pass along the chill in her stare to cool her down. But, if anything, it just made her hotter.

“I overreacted.” She said, finally, “I overreacted and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have cared.”

“But you did. Why?” Her gaze was cutting, dangerous. Intrusive, even.

Clarke could feel herself heating up, blood raging beneath her skin, “Something about you, probably.”

This didn’t satisfy Lexa’s curiosity, “Overreaction is a choice on your part. Not mine.”

In heightened frustration, she released a low groan, “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know why I cared. Look, this isn’t the direction I wanted this conversation to go.”

Lexa simply appeared thoughtful. Clarke noticed a careful crease between her brows. She presumed this was the brunette’s version of displaying confusion.

“You shocked me.” Clarke concluded, her voice quietening.

“I shocked _you_?” The crease deepened, “How?”

She shrugged, “Because Anya is careful about who she spends time with. I expected you to be, I don’t know, more…” She trailed away, evidently at a loss at how to complete her sentence, “just different.” She decided.

Lexa inclined her head, “I see.”

Clarke swallowed, “Look, we can’t avoid each other all the time. So, I want to make this easier on Anya, at least.”

“I understand. I’ll keep my distance.”

Clarke’s brow furrowed in frustration, “No, that’s not–”

“–Oi, Clarke! Are you coming?”

Clarke turned at the sound of her friend’s voice, “Oh, hey, Ni. I’m coming. Just give me…” She glanced back to Lexa, but she was already walking away.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“John Murphy, you _slut_.” Clarke had headed over to his workshop space once she had finished her life drawing session, picking up a recently painted canvas in her hand.

“Me? Why?” He was seated in the corner of the room, hunched over his paintbrushes as he cleaned them, “What, or whom, have I done?”

Clarke studied the detail he’d poured into the marbled pale-green eyes, “Does Anya know you’ve seduced her protégé?”

He smiled ruggedly around the handle of the paintbrush presently sticking out of his mouth, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“I might.” She dropped onto the leather couch situated against the back wall, realising now just why Lexa had been gracing around the corridors of the Arthouse. She looked over the image with scrutiny, examining the olive skin of the young woman, the waves of glossy chestnut hair, the angular cheekbones and the full lips. It was a great likeness, but something about it didn’t quite sit right with her and at first, she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

“If I’m a slut, you’re a voyeur.” He called, taking the paintbrush from his mouth, his back turned to Clarke as he organised his tools, carefully, “Look at you, staring at my latest conquest like she’s nothing but a scrap of meat.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, “Oh, yeah, _I’m_ the one who looks at her like a scrap of meat.”

“I would never. I’m vegan. Meat repulses me.”

“Are you bollocks a vegan?” She scoffed.

“Aspiring to be.” He returned with a hoity sniff, looking away from the disbelieving expression on his tutee’s face. At her silence, he muttered, “Alright, I’m vegetarian, at least.”

“Bollocks.” She repeated.

“Fine, fine! I’m half-vegetarian. I only eat meat on Tuesdays.”

Clarke watched his self-righteous demeanour crumble under her gaze, “Steak club with Two for Tuesdays discount?”

“Maybe.”

“And you eat both meals, don’t you?” She pressed.

Murphy folded his arms, “Well, I’m not going to let it go to waste, am I?”

“Have you thought about taking someone with you? Maybe your _latest conquest_?” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Stop it, you make me sound like a misogynist.” He placed a tool back between his teeth as he shifted the easel, turning his back to her again.

Clarke smirked, examining the image once more, “You don’t need my help with that, Murph. Anyway, you’ve done her wrong.”

Murphy laughed, the sound muffled from whatever obstruction he had in his mouth, “Mm-hm.” He must have removed it before speaking again, “You’re speaking as if you know how she should be done. Sounds like jealousy to me.”

“Oh, god, no. You can keep her.”

“And you’re saying that like she’s yours to give away.”

“If only getting rid of somebody was as simple as that.” She sighed, resting the tip of her thumb between her lips.

“And you call me a misogynist. Pray tell, then, in what way have I done her wrong?”

The young artist ran her gaze over Lexa’s painted expression. It was stony and impenetrable.

“You’ve made her look too, too harsh.”

Murphy scoffed, “Harsh?”

“Yes. She has this… well, I suppose it’s a sort of, you know, a sort of sadness in her eyes. You’ve missed that.”

She could see his smirk in the reflection of the mirror opposite him, “I can assure you she looked as formidable in the flesh as she does there. Her eyes were cold and piercing, I thought. Are you sure she’s not just sad when she has to talk to you?”

Clarke placed down the canvas, “Maybe. Probably. I’ve been a bit of a bitch to her, I suppose.”

“What? You, a bitch? No, surely not.” He mock-gasped, “I can’t, I shan’t and I won’t believe it.”

“Oh, shut up, Murphy. She was a bitch first.”

He shrugged, crossing his legs as he began scrubbing at his next set of paintbrushes, “Probably why I like her. You did say I have a thing for the conceited ones.”

Thoughtfully, Clarke chewed on her lower lip, “You do.” She murmured, absently, “But that’s just it. The last few times I’ve seen her, she’s been annoyingly polite and it’s made _me_ look like the immature one.”

Murphy tidied away his equipment and leaned back on his palms, finally turning around to face Clarke on the couch, “Do you care because you made her feel bad, or do you care because it makes you look bad?”

Clarke shot him a look of disbelief, “In all the time you’ve known me, when have I ever been that self-obsessed?”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s okay to give a shit about your self-image. But it’s not escaped my notice, and I know it’s not escaped your notice either, but recently it seems you’ve been having a bit of a crisis. Maybe about your identity, or maybe about your career. I don’t know.”

Clarke looked at him, waiting for him to make light of what he’d just said, or poke further fun at her, but he didn’t. Not too much, anyway.

“I say this with all the distaste in the world, but you are the genuinely the sweetest person I know. I don’t know anybody else who would do absolutely anything for anybody the way you would, and it’s gross and lovely all at the same time. The issue is, you’ve let people take advantage of that in the past, and I think this whole nemesis thing you have going on with Woods has stemmed from that. Somebody has rejected you and it hurt. It hurt because you have never rejected somebody before, so you can’t understand why somebody would do that to you.”

Clarke groaned softly to herself, “God. Are you an artist or a psychotherapist?”

“I study people and so do you.” He replied, simply, “My advice, Clarke, is to let yourself feel these things. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to want to punch somebody in the face for the smallest of reasons. It’s all part of being human. Plus, it shows itself in your art.”

“Is this the part where you lecture me about my Wells clay sculpture?”

He pointed a stick of charcoal at her, “Bingo. I don’t want that thing displayed in my exhibition.”

“What has _that thing_ ever done to you?” Clarke asked, angling her body to look at him more comfortably.

“Existed.”

“And are we talking about the clay sculpture or the human sculpture?”

“Both.” Murphy replied, indignantly, “Look, I can just think of more people you could create to demonstrate power. I know Wells is built like a brick shit-house with muscles on muscles, but that doesn’t mean he’s powerful, okay? Plus, I don’t think he’s worthy of modelling. Anyone can make a big strong man look intimidating or frightening. I’m looking for something beyond the expected. Power from a completely different kind of source.”

“I know he’s not your type–”

“–It isn’t just that, Griffin. He couldn’t give a toss about your art. He diminishes it and behaves as though it means less than his music band.”

“Well, to him it does mean less, which is fine.” Clarke said, complacently.

“Stop being so kind and understanding. The point is, I don’t want somebody with those views in my exhibition. I would prefer somebody who appreciates your talent. Somebody who doesn’t just sit there and pose with their top off.”

She sighed, “Well, I’m at a loss, then. The only reason I sculpt people is so I can see them naked.”

Murphy laughed, quietly, “That’s true for most of us. The point is, I just don’t approve of him as general rule.”

“A general rule?”

“Yes. Of him and you.”

She clicked her fingers as though she had just received an epiphany, “Oh, good! That solves that conundrum, then. I have been in a dilemma for months and months, wondering whether to be with him or not to be with him, but now I know _you_ don’t approve, my decision is made! I shall commit to the life of a spinster instead.”

“Ha-ha.” He returned, humourlessly.

“I don’t like him in that way. You know I don’t. We’re just friends.”

Murphy shrugged, “Yeah, right. Okay. In your mind, maybe. The boy near enough blows his load when you look at him.”

“Oh, the way you probably did when Woods looked at you?”

“Yes, exactly.” He agreed, “But I blew my load in a non-sexual way.”

“Makes sense.”

“You know it does.”

“Yes, okay, I get it. Maybe Wells is open to that kind of relationship with me, I don’t know.” She raised a hand, half-despairingly.

“Open to it? He’s _thirsty_ for it, Clarke. Thirsty for you.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, not for the first or the last time, “Okay, Murph. Sure, but let me remind you that it is _his_ issue and not mine.”

With impeccable timing, just as Murphy was about to retort, Clarke heard her phone ring. She checked before answering to see her father’s caller ID requesting a video chat.

“Hey, Dad.” She grinned as his face popped up on the screen, “I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you.”

“ _Hey, baby girl. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call you. How are you doing?_ ”

“I’m good. Just babysitting this child.” She flipped the camera towards her tutor, who was halfway through sticking two fingers up in Clarke’s direction.

“You’ve just made a very rude gesture at my father, Murph.”

“Erm, what? Me? No. It’s British for, for peace?” He attempted an angelic smile at the camera, which Jake responded to with a low rumbling laugh.

“ _I know exactly what it’s British for, John Murphy._ ”

“I blame your daughter.” He called, returning to his equipment, “She has a terrible influence on me!”

Clarke flipped the camera back to herself, settling back into the cushions, “So, how are you? Do you have a cold? You sound a bit chest-y.”

Jake shrugged, running a hand through his floppy fringe, “ _Yeah, had a bit of a cold or somethin’. Been goin’ ‘round, but I’m doing great_.”

“So, Mom said you’ve taken on a new project?”

He paused for a moment before answering, “ _Right,_ _yeah, been pretty busy, but it always is around this time. Ain’t long before the Proms. Few weeks. You excited?_ ”

Clarke enjoyed the Arcadian Proms inasmuch as it was the only time, aside from Christmas, that she and her family gathered together for a big event. She enthused about it more for her father’s benefit than for her own.

“I’m excited to see all of you.”

“ _Goddamn, you’re sounding more and more English every time I hear ya._ ”

“English, my arse!” Murphy shouted from his corner. Jake laughed, that same deep thundery sound, but it quickly turned into a cough.

Clarke said very little until Jake had managed to get on top of the coughing, and she narrowed her eyes, concerned, “Sure you’re alright, Dad?”

When the light hit his face in a particular way, she could see a new hollow to his cheekbones. He’d lost weight since the last time she’d seen him. Retrospectively, it had been a few weeks since, so it wasn’t too significant.

“ _I’m good, baby. I need to stop smokin’ them cigars, huh? Hey, listen, have you seen the agenda for the Proms, yet?_ ”

“No,” Clarke shook her head, “I keep out of the loop. Been pretty busy with my art, really.”

“ _Uh-huh. Well, I looked at the programme and I see Anya’s opening up with a crazy hard cello piece._ ”

“Ah, she kept that quiet.”

Jake nodded, “ _Sure sounds like her. I’m keen to see the new violinist. Scouted her in DC…_ ”

Clarke didn’t mean to lose concentration on whatever it was her dad was saying. It just happened. She gave the appearance of somebody who was listening intently, but her mind was elsewhere.

“ _… So, one day, I’d like it to be you_.”

“Huh?” Clarke blinked, suddenly noticing the change of pace in conversation.

“ _To do the speech. I know music ain’t your thing, baby, but Arcadia is our family’s legacy. I ain’t always there for you when I should be. I know that. Honestly, it tears me apart that I can’t give everything to y’all that y’all give to me. I know I push you to do things you don’t always wanna do. I’ve been there, too. One day Arcadia will belong to you an’ Madi. What I’m sayin’ is that you shouldn’t be afraid to let people see you for you._ ”

Clarke wasn’t sure she entirely followed, “What do you mean?”

“ _You hide away. You don’t let people see you as Clarke Griffin. Maybe that’s because you ain’t followed in my footsteps with your music, or maybe it’s because you don’t want to be overshadowed by the family name, I don’t rightly know. But it’s alright to be you, baby girl._ ”

“I know it’s alright to be me, Dad.” Clarke replied, trying to avoid letting the irritation seep into her tones, “Look, one day, sure I’ll do my part to keep Arcadia going, but that’s a long way away. For now, I need to figure out more about myself before I step into the spotlight. I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”

“ _Well, you see, time’s a funny old thing, Clarke. Things don’t always happen in the sequence we expect ‘em to._ ” He nodded to the watch on his wrist with a wry smile, “ _But less of that morbid talk. I gotta go. Your Mama’ll kill me if I’m late for our dinner reservation._ ”

“Sure but… Dad?” She took a breath, “You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Jake cracked one of his signature grins, one that usually lit up the bright blue of his eyes, “ _The only thing wrong is that I miss my little girl._ ”

He said it like he meant it, but his eyes were dull.

“Look after yourself. I mean it.” She instructed, firmly, “If you work yourself too hard, you’re going to get ill and stay ill. I would never forgive you for that, you know.”

Jake hesitated, “ _Yeah. Yeah, I know. I promise I’ll take it easy between now and when I see you, okay?_ ”

“Please do, and stop smoking those damn cigars.”

He winked at the camera, “ _Promise. Love you, Clarke._ ”

“Love you, Dad.”

Once the call ended, Clarke groaned theatrically and sunk into the cushions. Murphy moved over to the couch and dropped beside his tutee, letting her legs rest atop his thighs, “You okay, Griffin?”

“Yeah. It’s just he doesn’t see it. He’s going to make himself sick one of these days with how hard he works.”

“Mm.” He patted her shin, lightly, “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Unlike someone _I_ know, who doesn’t work at all.” She nudged his ribs with her toe.

“Well, one of us has to stay young and beautiful and free from stress lines.”

Clarke laughed, rolling her eyes again, “Yes, but one would have to be beautiful in the first place, wouldn’t they?”

“Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“I was talking about you, asshole.”

He smirked, tossing his hair out of his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind going grey early. It’s a fashionable colour nowadays.”

Clarke’s laugh faded into a sigh, “Seriously, I’m worried about him, Murphy.”

“If there was something wrong with him, surely your Mum would have told you by now?”

“I guess.” She bit her lip, “Unless she didn’t know.”

Murphy squeezed her knee, supportively, “Your mother knows everything. Just like you.”

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, vegan-boy.” Clarke trailed into silence and eventually pushed herself off the couch, “Anyway, I gotta go. I’m teaching in the morning.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in the afternoon to talk business, then.”

With a nod and a light kiss on top of Murphy’s head, Clarke headed out of his workroom. As she wandered down the corridor, her eye caught the lovers’ embrace she’d depicted over a year ago. She wondered why Lexa had chosen that specific piece of art to look at. Perhaps she’d never know. Perhaps there wasn’t even a reason in the first place. The backstory to the image had been left out of it, and Clarke recalled that it carried far more sadness for her than was demonstrated in the passionate warmth of the colours. Maybe Lexa had seen it, too. Maybe the sadness Clarke had seen in her eyes that day was a reflection of the artwork she’d gazed at.

Or maybe she was just being stupid.

Shaking the ridiculous thoughts passing through her mind, Clarke took herself out of the Arthouse and back to her apartment. Despite feeling utterly exhausted from the day’s events, Clarke felt a glimmer of hope alongside the dull dread. It was only a few weeks until she would get to see her family again, and that was something to get her through the days ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise I haven't had chance to respond to your comments but I can assure you that I adore reading them. I love it when you all share your thoughts with me. it is massively appreciated. Feel free to hit me up on Tumblr (the-lady-of-cythera) - despite my continued failed attempts to take advantage of such a wonderful platform, I will always ensure I respond to any queries you have for me on there! Please continue to share your thoughts with me.


	5. Chapter 4 - Just a Coffee, Just a Pen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wanted to give you all a heads-up for this chapter. Some of you will probably have already guessed what's to come. It does revolve around Clarke and her family dealing with loss in a situation that many of us can relate to. If you feel the need to skip through the first few paragraphs, that's fine. If any of you find it brings up any uncomfortable thoughts/feelings, you can reach out to me either on here or find me on Tumblr as the-lady-of-cythera. 
> 
> All of that aside, I do hope you enjoy this chapter, as it is highly significant to the rest of the story, and I will aim to get the next one published relatively soon.
> 
> Again, thank you for your continued support. It brings me a great deal of joy to read your thoughts, long and short.

People can spend months, years, of their lives preparing for something; be it an event, a choice, a test. The preparation may sometimes pay off but sometimes, it doesn’t. At times, people are faced with such experiences with no preparation at all, with no opportunity for preparation. It is in those moments where one must make a decision how they will move forwards. It is in those moments where one’s character is tested, tried, and decided.

But nothing, _nothing_ , no amount of time, could have prepared Clarke for the numbness, the pain, the anger, the sorrow. The heartache.

Nothing.

Maybe there was a part of her that had expected such a thing, but expecting something is not the same as preparing for it. The feeling of impeding dread had been pushed to one side the moment it had reared its ugly head. People rarely think “this will happen to me”.

But it did happen. And it happened to Clarke.

The shock struck her first, whipping sharpened claws over her chest and leaving her with an open wound that bled and bled with no relief. After the pain came the anger, and the sorrow.

Finally, the numbness.

That was the most terrifying part of all.

It began in the morning with a telephone call from her mother. This prompted the initial worry, because it would have been some few hours after midnight back across the seas. When she heard the restrained sobs, the broken breaths, Clarke felt the dread swallow her stomach whole.

“Hey – Mom? Are you okay? Mom, what’s wrong?”

Abby’s tears could have burned through metal.

“ _I’m sorry, Clarke. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry._ ” It was all she could say at first, punctuated with sharp inhales. After some encouragement and reassurance from Clarke, she was able to cut to the source of her regret, “ _It’s your dad. He’s, he’s in the hospital and, and…_ ”

“The hospital? What?” Alarmed, Clarke sat bolt upright, “What’s happened? Is he alright?”

“ _No. No, he’s not._ ” There was a pause as Abby attempted to word her next sentence. But there was no easy way to say it, “ _He’s – Clarke, baby, he’s ill. Really ill._ ”

“Ill? With what?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.

“ _Well, you know he’s had this cold, this chest infection? He’s had it for a while but he told us it was getting better with anti-biotics. Said the doctor told him he was getting over it. But I, I should have known something was wrong because he was_ always _coughing. Then, last night, he had another coughing fit, but it didn’t stop, and he threw up this blood. So much blood. He collapsed, so we took him straight in. They ran some emergency tests and told us he… they told us he has a very aggressive form of lung cancer, but that it had spread quickly to his blood and…_ ”

“No. They’re wrong.” Clarke said, quietly, “No. It isn’t that. It’s not. It can’t be. He said he was fine. How could it be, how could it be… _that_? Listen, I’m going to come home and see him and he’ll get better, won’t he?”

Abby emitted an uncontrollable sob, the sound of tears almost choking her.

“Mom. He’ll get better, won’t he?”

“ _They said – Clarke, they said he’s not going to make it_.”

“Make what, Mom?” Clarke asked quietly, fearing she knew exactly what her mother implied, but still needing to hear clarification. Her heart hammered in her chest.

“ _They said he’s been ill for a long time, but because he hasn’t had treatment for it, it has progressed very quickly to the final stages._ ”

To process it was impossible. She’d spoken to him only a couple of weeks ago. He had been fine. He and Abby had dinner plans. Sure, he had a cough, but that didn’t mean he was going to die. People get coughs and colds all the time. People lost weight all the time. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.

“ _Clarke?_ ”

After some minutes, she forced her jaw to unlock, “I’ll book a flight.”

“ _I think it will be too late, baby. They don’t think he will make it until morning._ ”

“But I need to see him. I need to be with him and you, you can’t go through this by yourselves.”

“ _We won’t. We’ll keep you on the line the whole time, okay? Your dad, he wants to be…_ ” Abby took a steadying breath, “ _he wants to be brought back to England. He had it all written down in his will_. _We will be with you as soon as we can._ ”

“Mama, I need to be with you now.” Clarke’s voice was small and powerless.

“ _God, Clarke I wish you were. So much. Wait, hang on, baby._ ”

Clarke could hear muffled voices on the other end of the phone and she waited, the pain pulsing loudly through her veins.

“ _He’s awake. We don’t know how long for. I’ll take you to him_.”

“Will you put the camera on so I can see him, at least?” She asked.

When Abby managed to switch the call to video chat, Clarke saw her father laying shrivelled in the hospital bed. His eyes were sinking into his skull, lips cracked and dry. How had it come to this and so soon? Surely, that was impossible. It had to be. The tubes stuck in and out of his skin, pumping drugs into his bloodstream. Not treatment, though. It was all stuff to keep him doped.

It made her want to vomit.

“Dad – daddy?” Her voice was barely audible.

He took a wheezy breath, his eyes zoning on the screen with very little focus, “ _Hey… baby… girl._ ” Another breath.

“I told you not to do this, Dad. I told you I wouldn’t forgive you if you got sick.” It was childish. True, but still childish.

“ _Sorry_.” He managed, “ _Need… you to… do… speech._ ”

Clarke blinked, “What?”

“ _Proms._ ”

Was he kidding?

He had to be kidding her. Surely.

She could barely think beyond this very second to the next minute, let alone the goddamn Proms. They hardly mattered. In fact, they didn’t. Why would they?

Fuck the Proms.

“Shh, Dad. Don’t you be worrying about that now.”

“ _Please._ ”

She wished he hadn’t said that. She wished he hadn’t asked it of her. She wished this wasn’t happening. She wished for a lot of things. Yet none of them even mattered. He was on his death bed and still all he could think about was the goddamn Proms. What about her? What about Madi? What about Abby? Wasn’t he going to say anything about them?

Clarke slid down to the floor, curling into the sitting foetal position, back curving away from the wall, “Madi, are you there?”

Abby lifted the phone so Clarke could see her sister, but she said very little. Her expression was unreadable. She was sitting beside their father, an expression of confusion on her features. It was as though the youngest Griffin hadn’t quite caught up with everything around her. As though she hadn’t fully recognised that their father was laying in the bed that he would soon die in. Then again, it wasn’t an easy thing to wrap one’s head around. Especially overnight.

Eventually, she opened her lips, “ _Why aren’t you here, Clarke?_ ” Her voice sounded strangely alien. Not exactly accusatory. Just detached.

“I wish I was, Mads.” Clarke forced her voice to remain as reasonably calm as she could, given the situation. Abby held the phone with an unsteady hand, pressing a soothing kiss to Jake’s forehead.

“ _We’re_ all _here with you, my love._ ”

His eyes must have rolled back into his head within the last few seconds because he didn’t respond. There was a bustle of activity and a nurse stepped into the bed-space.

“ _Mrs Griffin, I’m going to increase the morphine input in a moment, okay? It will stop the pain he’s feeling, but it means he might not wake up again_.” The nurse paused, allowing Abby to understand the words that had just been spoken to her, “ _I’ll give you a few minutes with him and come back with the pain relief when you’re ready. It’s important that we make him as comfortable as we possibly can_.”

Abby must have given her non-verbal consent in one way or another because the nurse soon left.

“ _Jake, we love you. Clarke does. Madi does. I do._ ” She squeezed his hand and a twitch of a smile pulled at his lips, “ _Do you want your favourite music playing? Madi, put on a track for him._ ”

Madi rested her phone by Jake’s head on the pillow as a piece of classical music played through the speakers beside him. When it was over, they each managed to say some form of goodbye before the nurse returned once again.

“ _Cl…_ ” Jake’s voice was no more than a papery breath. Abby leaned close, prompting him to speak again before she directed her voice to the phone.

“ _Clarke, he wants you to sing._ ”

“Madi should do it. He’ll hear her better.”

Madi exhaled, “ _He’s already heard me. He’s heard my voice countless times. He wants yours, Clarke._ ”

Clarke tried not to notice the bitterness in her voice. It would only make things worse to bite back.

“Okay.” She grounded herself for a moment, “Okay, put me by his ear.” She said softly, preparing herself to sing for her father one last time. But she would never truly be prepared for it.

The nurse organised the drug that would ultimately send Jake Griffin into an endless slumber, one where he would no longer feel pain. No longer feel heartache. No longer feel an unconquerable divide between the things in life that meant the most to him.

Her voice carried the words soothingly, a last lullaby. It had been one of his favourites, and he had often made her sing it to him when she was younger. She would frequently protest to performing and sing it with an air of reluctance. She felt very much the same, but for a different reason.

“ _If I could take this moment forever, turn the pages of my mind to another place and time, we would never say goodbye._ ” Clarke continued the song as his body was filled with morphine, “… _I wish that our dreams were frozen. Then, our hearts would not be broken when we let each other go_.”

She could hardly make it through the final verse of her swan song. Never would she wish to sing again. Not after this moment.

Everything fell silent as she trailed away, fighting back the tears. Her voice was the last he’d heard.

After many minutes, his passing was announced and confirmed. Abby took a shaky breath.

“ _Baby, we’re bringing him to you as soon as we can. We’ll be with you in a few days, okay? I promise._ ”

“Okay.”

“ _Yes. In the meantime, I can speak with the academy directors and, and we’ll figure something out. He, your father, he has it all written down. I’ll talk to them tomorrow or, or I don’t know. I’ll find the time somewhere_. _I just need a day. Just one before…_ ”

Clarke couldn’t help but consider her last conversation with her father. Jake had known about this. She could feel it. He had kept it to himself, away from his family. He had planned for this sort of end. He was more prepared than anybody for it.

She wanted desperately to blame him for his selfishness. She wanted to tear her hair out and scream at him, because how dare he not give any of them the chance to let him go on their own terms? Of course, perhaps in the same situation, she would have done the same. She could not blame him for choosing to do as he did.

“Mom, I’ll do it.”

Jake had made it clear he held expectations for Clarke. This was for her to do.

“ _You need some time to, to process things._ ”

“I’m alone, Mom. This morning when I woke up, I had a father. Now, I don’t. You two are together with him and I can do nothing. I need this.”

“ _Okay._ ” Abby murmured, “ _Okay, baby. Just, just don’t make any decisions until we’re with you._ ”

“I won’t.”

“ _You’re strong, Clarke. You always have been. I love you so much and so does Madi._ ”

“I love you both.” Clarke exhaled, “Will you call me later?”

“ _Of course, honey_.”

When the call disconnected, Clarke stared at the wall. She didn’t know for how long. Now, the numbness crept over her. Her body eventually prompted her to move, complaining at the emptiness in her stomach, the dryness of her mouth, and the lack of blood flowing to her limbs.

With lagging legs, she stood upright, running a hand through her hair and returning her attention back to her phone.

He answered after a couple of rings, voice rich and powerful, “ _Jaha speaking_.”

Clarke leaned herself awkwardly against the wall, “Thelonious, it’s Clarke Griffin.”

“ _I’d know your voice anywhere. How can I help?_ ”

Clarke exhaled, knowing it was peculiar for her to be contacting Well’s father, but that didn’t really matter. “I need to meet with you and Marcus Kane as soon as possible.”

“ _Is it urgent? I’m fully booked for the day_.”

“Yes.” She answered, her voice as a phantom’s, “It’s urgent.”

He paused for a moment before answering, “ _Okay, Clarke. I’ve cancelled my two-o-clock. Shall I meet you in my office in, say, half an hour?_ ”

“Yes, but I’ll meet you at my father’s office instead.” She returned, managing to keep a somewhat steady tone.

“ _Right you are_.”

Clarke had received, and was about to give, the hardest news she knew she’d ever had to. She’d chosen Jaha and Kane because they had been on his board of directors for the longest, and he trusted them the most. She had known them for most of her life. Somehow, she managed to get herself out of the door. Somehow, she managed to walk towards Arcadia’s headquarters, hood shielding her face. She prayed she wouldn’t see anybody who would recognise her. Despite feeling she would fall to her knees with every step she took, somehow, she didn’t.

Jake’s office was spacious and comfortable. With glass panels separating the inside from the out, Clarke could look out onto all the grounds and see the bend of the river. Thelonious and Marcus took their seats around the coffee table, waiting for Clarke to conduct some sort of introduction to their impromptu gathering.

“I’m sorry to call you at such short notice.” She began, taking a seat opposite the two of them, “and I’m sorry to have to say what I’m about to say.”

The two men waited, intently.

“My dad,” She steadied herself, “my dad was hospitalised last night after collapsing.”

Jaha leaned forwards, his fingertips pressing together, brow furrowing.

“This morning, my mother allowed me to speak to him over the phone. I stayed on the line for his final hours. I was able to sing for him as he fell asleep.”

Neither gentleman said a word. Marcus paled, his hands pressing to his forehead. Thelonious stared, fixated on an unseen space before him. Clarke rose to her feet and went to stand by the window, “He has requested to have his body brought back to England. My mother and sister will be bringing him as soon as possible.”

Thelonious nodded, eventually, dark lines etched deep into his forehead, “How can it have happened so quickly? We thought that, we thought he had more time.”

Clarke froze.

“This is simply devastating, Clarke.” Marcus stated, his voice low and sincere, “There are no words adequate enough.”

She was barely listening to their condolences.

Jake had told them. He had told his colleagues about the cancer. He had said _nothing_ to his family. She could’ve forgiven him for the latter. But not now. Not now he’d chosen others over his own family.

“I suppose…” She took a deep breath, “I suppose he will have told you what he wants to happen when my family bring him over to London?”

“Of course.” Marcus nodded respectfully, “We will make it all happen. Clarke. You must take this at your own pace. No matter how prepared you might have been, the ones we love are always taken too soon.”

_Funny_ , Clarke thought, jaw clenched. There was no preparation, at all. Not for those who needed it the most.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have a few things to tend to.” Clarke bowed her head, slightly, “We can meet once more upon my family’s arrival to make the appropriate arrangements.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Thelonious Jaha inclined his head, “Please, take it easy. Marcus and I are at your disposal, should you need anything at all.”

She nodded, “If you need to contact me, I will be at my father’s property in London. It will need preparing for my family’s arrival.”

She quickly bid a farewell and exited the tower block to fetch a few things from her apartment. The moment she arrived at Jake Griffin’s London house, she caved into the overpowering urge and threw up. Leaning against the toilet basin, finally, she let her body shake.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“It’s… it’s still impossible to believe.” Anya was seated in front of the piano, staring off in the direction of the practice room’s mirrored wall. Lexa had said very little. It had been a week since the announcement of Jake Griffin’s passing. Mainly, she had spent their session listening. Just listening. Her violin remained untouched in its case.

Lexa had only met Jake a handful of times. In a way, she was lucky for that. Lucky that she got to meet such a prodigy first-hand. She was able to enjoy the deep timbre of his voice and the warmth in his smile. It was rare, so rare, to meet somebody so highly-esteemed internationally – never mind to actually meet them _and_ like them. From the small glimpse of him she had, she knew his loss would be felt keenly all over the world. But more so by those who were close to him. Those who knew him.

One of those very people was leaning her spine against the keyboard before her.

“This must be hard for you.” Lexa observed, well aware she was stating the obvious, but knowing that sometimes simplicity helped.

Anya blinked as though the thought surprisingly hadn’t crossed her mind, “Yeah.” She glanced at her hands, “But it’s harder for her family. They’re barely even allowed to grieve for him. Their bereavement will be shared by the rest of the world, which can sometimes help… but other times, it can be really quite isolating.”

Lexa nodded, slowly, “His daughter is only seventeen, isn’t she?”

An unreadable expression crossed Anya’s face for a moment, before she nodded, “Yeah, his youngest.”

“He has another?” Lexa asked, certain she hadn’t been made aware of the fact before then.

“She hates the publicity.”

Lexa could understand that. Quite well. She bit her lip, resting an elbow on the lid to the grand piano, “It makes perfect sense that his wife has asked for privacy until the Proms.”

Anya slowly shifted her gaze towards Lexa, “How old were you?”

The violinist returned her tutor’s stare, “When I lost my mother?”

She nodded.

“Thirteen.” Lexa felt her eyes slide away to the music stand.

Anya nodded knowingly. She didn’t need to say anything further.

For some, it would have been difficult to understand what the Griffins were going through. Lexa felt a fragment of it, of their sorrow, as she thought back to her mother. Of course, Alexandra Woods had not been quite so widely recognised or nearly as established as Jake Griffin. Not remotely so. But Lexa had struggled to hear people she didn’t know talking about what a loss Washington had felt when Alexandra Woods had passed away. Sadly, in a similar manner to Jake Griffin.

But everybody else talked about the impact it would have on Washington’s pride and its music scene. Lexa had lost her only parent. Just as the Griffins had lost a father and a husband.

“How do you feel about the performance?” Anya asked after a while.

“Pressured. But I think,” She thought for a moment, internally correcting herself, “I know I will do all I can to give the piece justice. It’s sad that he won’t hear it, but I would like to think he will be there in spirit.”

“Didn’t have you down as the spiritual sort.”

Lexa merely shrugged, neither denying nor confirming it.

That evening, her strings were left untouched.

Once they had departed from the session, she decided she would take herself out of Arcadia for the evening. She needed some distance.

It wasn’t exactly easier to breathe in the busy streets of London, but it certainly took her mind away from the mass discussion surrounding Jake Griffin’s unprecedented death. She stole away into a coffee shop and perched herself in a squashy seat, settling a pair of reading glasses on the bridge of her nose. She didn’t necessarily need the lenses to see but she found reading for lengthy periods of time often left her with a headache and the spectacles helped with that. For numerous hours she sat undisturbed, refilling her teacup every now and again, managing to reach the end of her current book. She noticed the sun had sunk behind the tall city buildings and decided that it was probably time to be making her way back to her apartment, considering the café was most likely closing up in a matter of minutes. She found she was grateful for the few hours of quiet. It had given her chance to reflect and pay her internal respects to her mother, for a few fleeting moments at least. Sighing softly, Lexa packed away the book and put in her earphones so she could enjoy a brusque walk back to the academy.

It was a warm night; pleasant.

On her way home, she dropped by at the Information Commons to check her book back in. It was quiet. There were very few people there. It would mean she’d get the opportunity to take a leisurely stroll around the aisles to find a new book to read. She didn’t expect the brief encounter with the blonde she’d managed to push from her mind for a while. It seemed Clarke hadn’t expected it, either. She looked different. Drawn. Her eyes were tired and her hood was pulled around her face.

The young artist was sitting at a table with an empty cup beside her, a cup presumed once to have contained coffee. She was scribbling something down on a piece of paper, crossing out the words, and then starting again. It was something Lexa was familiar with when writing music. She intended on walking past her, leaving her to her creativity, but Clarke glanced up at the wrong time.

They locked eyes.

There was a moment of strained silence, Clarke looking as though there was nobody she would have liked to have seen less.

Lexa inclined her head politely, turning away to resume looking at the books, but it was too late at that point. They were too hyperaware of each other to leave the situation as it was. Clarke chewed distractedly on the end of her pen, eyes flickering back to the side of Lexa’s temple. Impulsively, she turned, catching the blue gaze and holding it in place with her own. Feeling the urge to break the silence, Lexa considered what she might say. But Clarke got there first, with something quite unexpected.

“Shit.”

Ordinarily, such a curse word would go unnoticed by many, but in a library area with fourteen or fifteen people at the most, it was bound to attract some attention, if not all. The culprit broke eye contact, staring down at the pen which was now broken into two halves in her hand. Lexa thought, perhaps, she would take the opportunity to walk by the artist unscathed from her watery blue stare. But she was wrong. Clarke had looked up at her once more, a little unfocused and as though she might’ve been on the brink of something. It was just unclear what.

“Do you need a spare?” Lexa asked, nodding to the damaged biro. She always carried a multitude of pens herself.

Clarke shook her head, fetching another from her bag and holding it above the paper, without actually writing anything, “I’m good.”

The violinist imagined that right then would have been a good time to exit the library, but she couldn’t eradicate the feeling that there was something incomplete about their encounter. She glanced again to Clarke’s empty cup.

“I’m getting a coffee. Do you need a refill?”

Clarke blinked, taken aback.

She ought to have just walked away instead of engaging. It would have solved a lot of the awkward issues currently arising.

“I know I look like I need it.” Clarke’s voice was hoarse, noticeably so, “But no, thank you. Don’t trouble yourself.”

Lexa shrugged, although it hadn’t bypassed her observation that Clarke was far paler than usual, obviously affected by some form of sleep deprivation. She’d also caught the nihilistic undertone to her words. She was lacking in her usual edge.

“No trouble. Do you take sugar?”

“Surely I look sweet enough.”

It was a joke. Lexa knew that. But Clarke had said it as though she thought her own voice was poison. Fortunately, Lexa was no stranger to the artist’s darkness, and her manner of speaking had little effect. She left the vicinity and headed to the coffee machine, deciding on getting a latte and a cappuccino. She would have whichever Clarke didn’t want. She wasn’t fussy when it came to hot beverages, but something told her the blonde would be. If she even accepted either of them.

Why was she doing this?

She didn’t feel any particular warmth towards Clarke, and she knew for a fact that the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t because she felt guilty, either. Clarke had equalled Lexa’s impolite behaviour on many occasions, and perhaps had even exceeded it. She couldn’t pinpoint a specific reason for wanting to alleviate Clarke’s frustration, and she couldn’t allow herself to continue without understanding her own motives first. She was an analyst. _Everything_ had a purpose; a reason. A design. A cause, an effect.

Perhaps it was due to the sensitivity of the week. There was an air of vulnerability about Clarke that day, one she hadn’t seen before. Although Lexa generally turned away from weakness, somehow, she couldn’t justify ignoring it. She eventually attributed it down to the passing of Jake Griffin. Everybody was feeling the loss in one way or another. 

“There.” Lexa placed both cups down on the table, “Latte or cappuccino.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Neither.” Clarke muttered, not looking up from her paper. Lexa didn’t pry, didn’t even think to, but it was evident that whatever Clarke was working on, it held some significant value to her, “I don’t need any sympathetic acts of goodwill right now, okay?”

In response, Lexa tilted her head to one side, feeling Clarke’s gaze meet hers once again, “I wasn’t under the impression you did.”

“So, why are you offering me coffee?”

“I wasn’t aware it was classed as a sympathetic act of goodwill.”

“The only other reason I can think you would offer me coffee for would be if you spat in it.”

Lexa barely twitched an eyebrow. Clarke wasn’t holding back, whether it had been intended as a joke or not.

“I can, if that’s what you’d like.” She said, calmly.

Clarke didn’t even grace her with a humourless laugh, “I would hardly expect anything less of you, to be honest.”

“Okay, Clarke. Drink the coffee, or don’t. I couldn’t care less.” She began to turn away, the sound of Clarke snapping her second pen making her stop her in tracks. It seemed she had a real vendetta against writing utensils that night.

Angrily, she tossed the pieces of pen across the table, “Couldn’t care less? That’s refreshing to hear because I could’ve sworn a minute ago you were trying to get into my good graces fetching me coffee like, like I’m fucking homeless, or something.”

Lexa felt her jaw tic, “Get into your good graces.” She repeated, quietly, “Is that something I’m supposed to be doing? Are you hosting a rigged raffle?”

“Am I – what?” For a moment, Clarke stared at her hard, eyes concrete blue. She obviously found the thing she was looking for after searching her pale green stare because her eyelids flickered, and she surrendered. Starkly, the faint lines on Clarke’s face softened and she leaned back, coming to some undetermined conclusion about whatever had just transpired between the two.

“So, this really is just a coffee.”

Lexa almost considered saying something rude but she controlled herself, deciding that the person she aspired to be would be utterly different to the person she used to be, “And milk.” She confirmed, opting for a dry remark, instead.

“No, I mean,” She waved a hand, carelessly, “there isn’t some kind of hidden ulterior motive, or whatever.”

Lexa had known exactly what she meant. She shook her head, “No. Just coffee. No motive.” That she could think of, at least. Before she had really thought about it, her lips carried the next sentence without any kind of forewarning, “Besides, I’ve been told once before that kindness costs nothing.”

And that was when Lexa realised the reason why she had done it. Even though she hadn’t recognised her guilt, she felt she owed something to Clarke for that one simple lesson. Kindness didn’t have to come with a price. The recognition was uncomfortable.

Clarke’s lips parted, her eyes widening, and it was heavy the way she stared. So heavy. Lexa caught it, though; she caught the way a faint dusting of pink fell on pale cheeks. But the colour was gone as quickly as it arrived, and the density of the silence thinned when Lexa reached into her bag and placed a pen in front of the artist. She needed something to push away the weight of blue.

Clarke looked at the pen as though it carried some venereal disease. Lexa took the cappuccino in her hand and turned away from her, deciding that chasing her impulses had been a mistake after all, “And that’s just a pen.” She added over her shoulder before she could stop herself.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Clarke sat, bewildered. If she had expected her night to pass a particular way, Lexa fetching her coffee would not have equated into it, even if she had expected the night to take a series of bizarre and peculiar twists. The second the enigma walked away from her, she found she could breathe again despite not realising initially that her lungs had been compromised. Lexa had shown no inclination whatsoever that she knew anything of Clarke’s status, aside from being an over-confident artist. When she had first approached her, she had assumed Lexa had learned she was the daughter of Jake Griffin, presumably through Anya, and had therefore geared herself up for some kind of confrontation.

Clarke never used to feel too bad about losing her temper with Lexa, mainly because the latter was usually so cold and impassive. It seemed very little ever pierced her glacial exterior. Tonight, though, there had been something markedly different about her. Still unemotive and controlled, but different all the same. Clarke couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and that only made her more frustrated. She rarely had trouble reading people, even the ones who professed to be the most complicated. In fact, especially those ones. Complications were easy to unpick. But not Lexa’s.

Not that she was interested in doing so.

She just hated puzzles she couldn’t solve.

Glancing at the speech she had been working on, Clarke found herself falling back into the familiar reality of dread. Somehow, even though it had been unintentional, Lexa had distracted her from the chronic ache in her chest. Granted, it had been briefly replaced with something that resembled a tight mechanical cog; one that twisted in her stomach, but still a distraction.

_Kindness costs nothing_.

Clarke stared at the cup of coffee in front of her, deciding to experimentally sniff the lid. It was the latte. Caramel. Her favourite.

Begrudgingly, she sipped at the hot drink and sighed, knowing how badly she’d needed it. As the coffee hit her empty stomach, so did the guilt. She pushed it away and stared at the clock on her phone. It was now going on for midnight and she’d barely even composed more than a few usable sentences. How was it possible to write something to match up with her father’s legendary opening speeches?

Well, Clarke had concluded, it wasn’t.

Moodily, she screwed up the piece of paper in her hand and started afresh. Maybe she was viewing it with the wrong perspective. Most people didn’t even really know she existed as a Griffin – those who did were only vaguely interested in her role as Jake’s daughter. Guaranteed, the moment she stepped into the spotlight, that was going to change. She had no particular expectations to meet. Besides, her father had told her it was okay to be who she was. Whether it was or whether it wasn’t, she couldn’t change that fact. If the speech went well, then she would do her father and family proud. If it didn’t, she would be no worse off than she was currently, so it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. The thing that mattered was her father had asked her to do the damn speech on his damn death bed, so she was going to have to damn well do it. But preferably with less curse words. She would never live up to his persona, but she was okay with that. Madi had the flaring potential to supersede him, but Jake hadn’t asked her. For one reason or another, he’d asked Clarke. _On his own head be it,_ she decided. This time, when she wrote, she allowed her pen – no, Lexa’s pen – to work across the paper without stopping.

It was a couple of hours before she arrived back to her father’s London house. She’d known Abby would be waiting up for her. Her mother was dozing lightly in the living room, the television on the lowest possible volume.

Clarke dropped beside her, draping an arm around her thin shoulders.

“You’re back.” Abby murmured, resting her head against her daughter’s.

“Yeah. I’ve finished it. At least, I’ve done what I can. If I worked on it much longer, I would’ve ended up butchering the entire thing.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Clarke raised her eyebrow, expelling a quiet laugh, “There’s a reason I paint pretty pictures instead of composing novels.”

She smiled in response, although there remained an untouchable sadness in her eyes, “Well, I’m sure it will be beautiful, regardless.”

Clarke just shrugged. At least one of them was sure.

“Are you going to bed?” She asked, squeezing Abby’s shoulder lightly.

“I haven’t slept in bed since…”

Clarke frowned, “No?”

She shook her head, “No. I can’t. You know, I never did sleep properly without him. It was terrible when he worked away.”

Clarke listened, carefully.

“Even when we fought and he was only sleeping in another room, I couldn’t bear it. Despite wanting to murder each other, he would always come back. It’s just, it’s hard knowing that now he never will.”

She had always known her mother to be strong. She spoke about her feelings openly. She felt things deeply, as did Clarke, but she never broke. Abby would grieve for the rest of her life, but she would keep on living, that much Clarke knew. She tried to hide her resentment, biting down on her lip. How could Jake have told his colleagues about his terminal illness and not his wife? The woman who had stayed with him through everything. The woman who had taught Clarke what it meant to sacrifice.

“In spite of everything, Clarke, we loved each other so much.”

“I know.” She managed, “You have both taught Madi and I what it means to truly love somebody.”

Abby nodded, slowly.

“If you’re sleeping down here,” Clarke began, going to grab the fur blanket from the basket underneath the coffee table, “at least try and let yourself be comfortable, okay?”

“Okay.”

Clarke wrapped it around her mother and leaned down to kiss her forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

Clarke switched off the main light, leaving her mother with the warm glow of the lamp, and headed upstairs to her own room. Once she’d used her bathroom and changed into her pyjamas, she dropped onto the mattress, tiredly.

“ _Clarke?_ ”

The whisper behind the bedroom door startled her.

“ _Are you awake?_ ”

She pushed back the duvet and opened up the door. Madi stood on the opposite side looking exhausted. To look at the two sisters together, one might’ve questioned their familial connection. Madi was brunette where her sister was blonde, and instead of inheriting her father’s bright blue gaze as Clarke had, her eyes (although blue) were cloudy. Madi’s eyes were the storm and Clarke’s were the sky. Upon closer inspection though, one might’ve noted the identical determined sets to their jaws, their similar height.

“Can’t sleep.” Madi muttered, standing awkwardly in front of her sister. They had barely been given the time to catch up with one another since reuniting and the distance between them now as they stood together was almost heart-breaking.

“Well, you can come and not sleep in here with me.”

Madi nodded and walked gingerly into the bedroom, sliding under Clarke’s duvet.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

Clarke creased her eyebrows, dropping beside her and pulling the quilt up to her chest, “What for?”

“For being a bitch to you when you didn’t deserve it.”

She said nothing and waited for Madi to say everything she wanted to, listening patiently.

“It’s just that, I don’t know.” Her voice was thick as she tried to find the words, “I’m used to you being there when things get hard. There’s never been a time when I’ve gone through something and you weren’t there to help me out of it, or whatever. So, I suppose I was mad at you for not being there when we found out Dad was going to die, you know? And…” She was quiet for a moment, her jaw clenching.

“What is it?” Clarke asked, gently.

She took a breath before finally voicing her thoughts, “Is it… I mean, I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m angry, Clarke. I’m furious at him for dying. How messed up is that?”

Clarke shook her head, “I don’t think it’s messed up, Mads. Hell, I’m pissed, too. _Super_ pissed. I can’t help but being angry that he lied about it to us. He _knew_ he was going to die, and he said nothing. He turned down treatment. I thought, why wouldn’t he want to get treated? Why wouldn’t he want to do all he could to stick around for us?”

Madi nodded, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“But then, maybe by the time he found out about the cancer, it could have been too late for treatment. Maybe it was terminal already. Maybe he wanted to save us the pain of treating him as fragile, or maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of what the treatment could do to him. There are many reasons he made the decision he did and even though I am angry at him, unless I’m faced with that decision, I don’t know what I would do.”

“I get that.” Madi sighed, “But it still hurts.”

“I know. It will hurt for a while, maybe forever. You’re strong, though. You always have been.”

Madi exhaled, “Only because I had you.”

Clarke shook her head, “Sure, we’re strong together. But you’re strong with or without me and I promise you, one day, you will see that.”

Their conversation tapered off into a lulled, contemplative silence. Eventually, at some unearthly hour, the two Griffin girls managed to get some form of rest. Most nights brought broken sleep to the family Jake had left behind. In the time leading up to the Proms, Clarke had avoided as many people as she possibly could. In fact, the lengthiest conversation she’d held with anyone, aside from her family, had been with Lexa. But she had appeared to be none the wiser to who Clarke actually was which, in some odd way, had been a refreshing change. If not infuriating. So, bearing that in mind, it was understandable that it was a horribly daunting prospect to stand up in front of thousands as a live audience, as well as millions through the television broadcast. Especially when some of them had been aware of her existence, but with very little indication as to who she really was. But it was even harder to stand in front of those she knew, and those who knew her.

Clarke was barely listening to the directors as they prepared her backstage for the lights. She wished she had her mask. Anything would have been achievable if she could conceal her face, her expression, in some way. She wasn’t blessed with a neutral backdrop of emotion. She was passionate and she was fierce in the way she expressed herself. Hiding her heart had never been an easy task.

People powdered her face, smoothed her hair, straightened out her sapphire dress. Yet, she couldn’t feel a thing.

She was numb. Numb, all the way to the centre stage. The spotlight focused on her, consequently blacking out all the faces amongst the many tiers of the Royal Victoria Music Hall. Some of them were murmuring, trying to place her significance to the biggest music event of the year, and others recognised her immediately. The silvery scatters of whispers in the seats rippled from the front to the back of the room.

It was okay to be overwhelmed. It was okay to feel the way she felt. It was okay.

But it wasn’t okay. Not at all.

Once the signal had been given, Clarke forced her chin upwards and pushed back her shoulders.

And when she began speaking, all fell silent. Just for her.


	6. Chapter 5 - The Grand Arcadian Promenade

She felt the pressure. It weighed on her shoulders; shoulders she forced to remain perfectly poised. It was one thing to perform in front of an entire nation, but it was another to perform the masterpiece of the recently departed composer in front of his family.

Lexa had placed enough resin on her bow to satisfy her and she turned her attention to the television screen in her backstage practice room. She caught a glimpse of blonde waves fastened in an elegant updo on screen and a dress that accentuated shapely curves. She could admit to herself taking a sneaky second glance at the figure, her eyes lingering for an extra couple of seconds, but it took her far longer than it ought to have for her to realise exactly who it was she was staring at.

Then, her heart stopped.

Clarke? It was Clarke. Clarke was standing in the centre of the huge stage with a stark blue stare.

It didn’t make any sense. None, whatsoever. Clarke repelled the music scene. Yet, she was conducting the introduction?

She blinked, expecting her brain to correct itself and show somebody else standing where Clarke was, yet it simply made her features even clearer. The artist stood resolutely but with an air of desperately concealed reluctance. She knew then that it had to be her. She had seen the set of her jaw far too many times to know when Clarke was displeased. Lexa searched for possible reasons why Clarke had been roped into such an event, but found no such satisfactory answers.

Then, her lips opened, and Lexa watched, transfixed with curiosity.

“ _I welcome each of you to the opening of the Grand Arcadian Promenade on behalf of my family._ ”

Family?

“ _But it is not without the heaviest of hearts that I stand before you here tonight, fulfilling the tradition passed down to me by my beloved father, Jake Griffin_.”

Lexa felt her chest judder. Her father. Jake Griffin. Clarke Griffin. _She_ was the other daughter. The oldest. She was a Griffin. Her thoughts, playing like staccato in her mind, repeated over and over and over again. How could she have not known this? Lexa had unknowingly built the foundation of hatred between her and the daughter of the man who made all of this possible for her. How had Anya not thought to mention that small detail before now?

Maybe her idea of a joke.

“ _Although it is an honour, it is an honour I wished I would not receive. Not for many, many years. As most of you will know, the Proms is an event loved and cherished by my father, and despite the heartache we feel as a nation, it is truly humbling to witness_ _the unity you have all brought here tonight. On behalf of my family, I thank you all, from the deepest reaches of our souls, for your love… and for your devotion. Tonight, we honour his memory and we honour his unyielding passion for music from the very core of Arcadia’s community. So, please, allow yourselves the pleasure of experiencing such phenomenal talent and dedication. Thank you._ ”

Lexa sat in stunned silence as the sound of applause thundered through the television speakers, and from above her head. For a moment, she could barely bring herself to breathe again. Had Anya been present and not about to open the night with a piece on the cello, she might’ve felt inclined to have one or two, or several, choice words with her. As it was, she was alone, waiting for her cue, and therefore forced to form her own rational conclusion. After all, Anya had stated the other Griffin daughter hated publicity.

Lexa caught herself analysing every encounter she’d ever had with Clarke for _any_ clue whatsoever she might have missed. She was confronted with an uncomfortable realisation. It wasn’t that Lexa now felt guilty for slighting Clarke because she was aware she was going through something horrific. Neither did she feel that she’d missed out on a good networking opportunity since Clarke was suddenly a recognised figure across… everywhere. She simply felt a sense of emptiness. Of isolation. If Lexa had been offered some form of kindness or compassion after her own mother’s death, perhaps she would’ve turned out to be somebody with more of a conscience. Somebody gentler. Somebody who was understood. Instead, all she could feel was something of a detached imbalance in her chest.

There were numerous factors to her current level of inequity. One, of course, that Clarke was Jake Griffin’s eldest daughter; that much had been established already. Two, that she had managed to conceal it for so long. Three, that she didn’t parade the information around the academy as though it was a medal of honour.

It occurred to her that, despite Clarke’s insufferable desire to argue at every possible opportunity, Lexa was likely the first person to warrant her to display such open dislike. Clarke obviously had a lot of friends, she was charming, attractive, and kept out of the direct spotlight enough for people to like her without their own ulterior designs. There was no valid reason as to why Clarke might have been disliked, or at least disliked so openly. Regardless, Lexa had been the person to decline her offer of friendship initially for no reason aside from prejudice and a misconception that the young artist had been out to sabotage her.

How silly that all seemed now.

How miniscule and childish.

Perhaps, Lexa thought, the strangeness she experienced in her chest was something like shame. She had wrongly assumed that people with vast amounts of money to their name had never experienced hardship. Not real hardship, at least. It was because she viewed Clarke as a young woman who had been given everything. Of course, objectively, Clarke _was_ in a better position than those living in squalor and poverty. But that did not mean she was unexposed to trials or trauma. Despite the circle of friends, natural charm, looks, money and talents, Clarke Griffin was still a young woman who had just lost her father. Now, she stood in front of millions all over the country, in place of her deceased father, exposing herself to publicity, criticism, and recognition – the very things she hated – and had ultimately lost her valued anonymity. She was unmasked. Vulnerable. She had to pretend that Jake Griffin’s death meant just as much to complete strangers as it did to her. As far as Lexa was concerned, Clarke didn’t even care for music, either. Not on the same level that was expected of her, at least.

It put a great deal into perspective and now she understood what Clarke had meant about, well, about everything. Everything including her “good graces” comment; one that had nothing to do with rigged raffles whatsoever. The thought invited yet another wave of discomfort to roll over her skin.

“Miss Woods, you’re on in ten.”

She was promptly pampered and prepared like a prize turkey after slaughter by a flurry of artists and various other unidentified groups of nondescript crew members. Presuming they were crew members, of course. She couldn’t really say she’d noticed.

Steadying herself, Lexa took a breath and made her way with her violin up the stairs to the main stage. She awaited her introduction, heart beating surprisingly calmly, and stepped out into the heat of the beating artificial light.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Clarke was barely listening. She had joined her mother and sister in their allocated box; Jake would have loved it. Perfect view of the stage, table service, endless whiskey and wine, plenty of room, comfortable seating, and everything else on top of that. No expense had been spared. Thelonious Jaha and his family sat in the box adjacent, but Clarke had positioned herself so it would have been impossible for her to make eye contact with Wells. She couldn’t have handled his sympathies right then.

“I think this is the one your father was keen to see.” Abby murmured, sipping at her wine.

Her father was keen to see all of them. Her mother’s statement therefore meant very little.

Out of politeness, Clarke phased into the introductory announcement of the next performance.

“… scouted by Jake Griffin himself in Washington DC, you each have the insatiable pleasure of hearing Arcadia’s own blossoming violinist, Miss Lexa Woods, daughter of Alexandra Woods whom…”

Clarke’s heart was pounding in her ears, drowning out the rest of the introduction. Had she heard that quite correctly? Lexa Woods? Scouted by Jake Griffin? Lexa. Scouted by Clarke’s father. She sat forwards in her chair, hardly aware that her entire focus had now narrowed onto one young woman standing terrifyingly still in the centre of the stage. The moment she saw her, she felt a heaviness in her mouth. Like somebody had stuffed a rock under her tongue. A sickness settled in her stomach, where she assumed it was likely to stay for the rest of the night.

Lexa was wearing a lengthy, sophisticated black dress. The slit from her midthigh revealed long legs with skin that poured like honey. Clarke noticed she had tattoos, small and delicate, in places that were ordinarily concealed. In a word, and there were several she could have used, Lexa looked striking. She held the audience captive with a still stare. They waited, bound to her. Clarke waited with them. It was as though she knew she had full control, full power, and had no qualms in using it. If anything, the audience _wanted_ to be controlled. They needed it. And she did it with such confidence, but with such care.

“Before I begin, there is something I wish to share with each of you.” Lexa’s voice was a cocktail of some soothing lullaby and an invitation, “In preparing this piece, I was faced with turmoil in how it ought to be played. I was guided by the composer’s hand in the music score, but also by what he wrote in the manuscript. Allow me to share it with you, that you may feel fully what it is to experience the work of Jake Griffin.”

And then she knew.

Clarke knew.

It was _her_.

With a dry mouth, she could do nothing save listen to her father’s words leaving Lexa’s lips, and it felt like a punch in the gut, despite the way she nurtured them with such sincerity.

“It comes from the look in her eyes; the sorrow. I cannot reach her. I wish I could. I wish this would. But it never did. It was never her desire. It was mine, and yet, the thing that was my desire became my duty. What I thought to be my duty quickly became my desire. Bound by my own passion, I became slave to my own success.”

Lexa said nothing further. She didn’t need to. Her instrument, sleek and beautiful, rested between her jaw and shoulder, bow held firmly with her fingers and thumb. When she was ready, and only when she was ready, she touched the strings with the hairs of her bow, free hand posing on the fingerboard.

Regardless of her poise, her gentle and silent commands, nothing could compare to the sound that filled the entire hall when she drew out the first note. At first, watching her play felt almost intrusive, as though one was witnessing an intimate, desperate love affair between her and the violin. The way she tended to each note, each dynamic, was enrapturing. As if she was pouring out her vulnerability with every stroke of her bow.

Clarke had heard Lexa play the piece countless times before in the Soundhouse, never realising the true identity of the violinist who played it. The piece in particular tended to the most sorrowful, lonely parts of the soul. Coaxed them out. Brushed over each rough edge with an unfamiliar tenderness.

There was a reason, Clarke knew, why only Lexa could play the piece with such precision, such supremacy and perfection. It wasn’t just through the hours of dedication and practice. It was because she felt the music. She felt what it had done to Jake Griffin. What it had done to his family. What it was now doing to the entire audience.

Lexa had suffered loss, too. She did not buy her way into the academy. She earned it. She sacrificed for it. It was an uncomfortable realisation.

It came to a point where Clarke couldn’t look at her anymore. Couldn’t witness what the raw devastation was doing to her. But neither could she look away. It was the first time she had seen anything remotely human in Lexa’s expression, and it was excruciating. Clarke felt it all with her, _because_ of her.

Even as the music tapered away, Clarke was stunned. There was a reverent pause, a palpable silence, before the crowds could even bring themselves to applaud such prowess. She couldn’t even place her palms together. All she managed was to automatically rise to her feet alongside her mother and sister, who led the standing ovation, and dart her eyes towards the exit. The moment she could, she left, stumbling towards the doors.

“Clarke?”

She glanced at her mother’s hand curling lightly around her wrist, “I just, I-I need a few minutes.” Her words jumbled as though she was drunk, when in actual fact, she felt as sober as a judge. She swiftly evacuated the stuffy box and strode towards the stairwell, chasing the steps down and down until she came to a corridor that led her backstage, out of the public eye. Her eyes zoned in on the fire exit at the end of the corridor, and she pushed the doors wide open, managing not to set off any alarms – or, if she had, she didn’t notice. Clarke took a deep breath of the crisp autumn-evening air, grabbing a hold of the railings with one unsteady hand.

How? How could this have happened? Any of it? Clarke couldn’t even bear to analyse the events that had so recently transpired.

In suffocating frustration, she swallowed as much air as she could before she could even consider turning back around to walk indoors. It was hard enough just thinking about returning to a confined space, surrounded by people who knew so little about the heartache Clarke was going through. Even though it was unreasonable to feel such a way, she couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly alone. As though nobody could see her, even though all eyes had been glued to her earlier in the evening.

She needed a drink.

Something.

Something to numb whatever it was causing her disordered thinking.

She turned then, preparing to carry herself in some manner towards the nearest bar at the venue, only to find herself frozen to the cold ground she stood on.

Lexa stood before her, hair pulled around one side of her neck, the pale green of her heavy-lidded stare paralysing her every limb.

“It’s you.” Clarke’s voice returned to her after some moments of laboured silence. Lexa’s jaw slackened, but she said nothing. “I should have guessed it would be you.” She muttered, not without a bitter aftertaste.

Still, Lexa remained standing in stationary uncertainty.

“You’re the violinist.” Clarke explained, realising that she was making very little sense. Not that Lexa was helping matters by standing there as a perfect statue.

“I am a violinist, although…” She paused, tilting her head almost unnoticeably to the left, “I did not know I had the honourable title of ‘the’.” She said it without sarcasm. Perhaps she hadn’t realised Clarke had witnessed the performance. Maybe she assumed she had been outside the entire time. Although, judging by the look in her eyes, she knew Clarke had seen her. Why else would Clarke be shaking the way she was?

“I heard you.” It was the most disjointed conversation Clarke had ever had, and yet, she continued to fuel it, “Your performance.” She clarified, ignoring the way the chill pinched at her bare arms. If Lexa was cold standing in the doorway to the night air, she didn’t show it. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her she had spent hours listening to her practice. Not right then.

“I’m sorry, Clarke.”

If she was expecting something, it hadn’t been that.

“What? What for?”

It seemed the question presented far too many potential answers because Lexa was quiet, considering her words very carefully.

“For god’s sake, Lexa, just say it.” She snapped, folding her arms across her chest in attempt to keep herself as warm as she could without actually moving away from her current spot.

“I had no idea that you are Jake Griffin’s daughter. If I had realised, I wouldn’t have…”

“Wouldn’t have what?” Clarke intercepted Lexa’s careful explanation with an assumption of her own, “Wouldn’t have been rude to me? Wouldn’t have made it abundantly clear that you think you’re above everybody else?”

Or, perhaps, Lexa would have expressed more of those things if she _had_ known.

“No, actually, my manners would likely have been much the same, if not worse.” The violinist shook her head, steadily, “I’m sorry you had to see somebody like me at a time like this, playing his composition.”

“God,” Clarke rolled her eyes, “Stop talking like a masochist. It’s embarrassing.”

Lexa’s lips snapped shut. She looked at Clarke, unblinking, for a long moment. Too long. She felt the shudder creep over her spine as the feeling of subjecting herself to Lexa’s control resurfaced. But the violinist merely bowed her head.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Clarke. Truly.”

Clarke felt her eyebrows crease, initially a little uncertain what to say. Eventually, she opted for a quiet sigh and fixed her attention on the floor between them.

“I understand you would prefer to be alone.”

Clarke shrugged, “Doesn’t really make a difference, but thanks.”

Lexa inclined her head and turned to make her way down the corridor, saying nothing further. That was when Clarke felt the guilt exhaust her insides, as though she had swallowed cigarette ash. She cursed inwardly and walked back towards the building, “Lexa, wait.”

She paused, her head angling just enough to catch Clarke in the peripherals over her shoulder. But then, she was hardly certain of what to say next. Lexa just waited with unending patience. She did nothing to make Clarke feel rushed. In fact, she could have been a still frame in a snapshot of time.

In the end, Clarke released her lower lip from between her teeth and finally spoke, “Your performance…” She began, her throat instantly tightening as she thought back to the way Lexa played. After a moment of grounding herself, she continued, “I wish my father was there to hear it. You played it exactly as he would have wanted. In fact, I imagine it would have exceeded even his highest hopes.”

Lexa swallowed, carefully turning properly to face Clarke, “That means a great deal to me.”

“Honestly, it’s why I had to leave. Why I had to stand outside just now. You, I mean, _it_ left me in pieces.”

For a moment, the violinist looked as though she might have either apologised to her or thanked her, but opted for listening instead.

“Look,” Clarke exhaled, “I haven’t been fair to you.”

Again, she said nothing.

“In fact, I’ve been awful. I know I have. I’ve been harbouring this grudge against you for months and I don’t know why I can’t seem to just let it go. Part of me has been clinging onto the anger I feel towards you because it’s the only time I let myself feel something bad, I guess.”

Lexa took a step forward.

“Aside from being generally difficult to like, you haven’t really done anything wrong to me since we met.”

“Clarke.” Lexa’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, immediately silencing the train of words leaving the artist’s mouth, “You have gone through something unimaginably painful. Right now, the last thing you need is more discomfort. Unless this is a conversation that will alleviate any of that pain, I will ask you to save it for another time.”

Clarke found herself sliding deep into the reassurance of her pale eyes.

“It can wait.” Lexa murmured, something of a flicker behind her impenetrable gaze.

Slowly, she nodded, internally grateful for Lexa’s surprising level of understanding.

“I ought to get back to my family.”

Lexa stepped to one side to allow Clarke to pass, pulling the fire exit doors closed behind her, “Of course.”

“Are we – should…?” Clarke hesitated, worrying at her lower lip for a few seconds, trying to throw something together that made sense. Eventually, she just shook her head, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

It was impossible to know what the violinist was thinking, but then she opened her lips, “Clarke, it matters. I would like to talk to you one day. Properly. I think we would both benefit from a real conversation but, as I say, it can wait until you’re ready. I will wait.”

“Thank you.” She had never imagined those words to escape her when around Lexa Woods or at least not with the sincerity in which she spoke them then.

She had to walk away. To stay any longer might have caused unimaginable results, and Clarke knew she had to return to some kind of familiarity; had to ground herself again. It would be difficult, particularly as she felt as though her body might’ve been floating somewhere above the stratosphere, such was the surrealness of the evening.

Clarke spent the rest of the evening seated with her family, eyes fixed on the stage, but really, she wasn’t watching at all. Something had shifted within her. Perhaps it was understandable considering the sudden loss of her father, but there was something, something about the way her heart beat that was different. There was no pinpointing it. All she knew was that it was playing over and over and over again in her mind; her father’s composition. It had pierced her to the core and, amidst the notes that passed through her memory, she saw something else. Mostly colours. Or rather, variations of the same colour. They passed by her in a blur, and they hardly lasted long enough for Clarke to truly question whether they were responsible for the change within her that evening. She didn’t linger on it. In fact, it could be challenged whether she was really aware of it at all. But there was something exquisite in the translucency of such a pale green stare. Something that would soon come to both startle and calm her. But even when the evening was over, Clarke knew the hardest part wasn’t. They had to get through the gruelling legalities of death. The bureaucracy. The technicalities of cold law.

For that night, though, Clarke would ignore the politics. She would stay up with her mother and with her sister, staring into the flames of the London house fireplace, wondering whether any of them truly knew Jake Griffin at all.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“You know, eventually, you’re going to have to deal with it.”

Clarke rolled her eyes at the annoyingly correct observation from her tutor, “Yes, the keyword being ‘eventually’, though.” She muttered from the velvet couch in his workshop, “So, that leaves optimum opportunity for procrastination.”

John Murphy glanced up briefly from sharpening his tools, “Sure, okay. You can do that. You know it’s only going to make it harder to assume the position of when the time comes but you go ahead and put off the inevitable. You’re going to be the chairman, or chairwoman if you want to be all PC about it.”

“Chairperson, I think.” She corrected absently, toying with a thin paintbrush she’d found wedged between the cushions, “Or I could abdicate the chair altogether.”

Murphy shrugged, “You could. It’s an option.”

“What? You’re not going to try and convince me to do my duty, or whatever?”

“Clarke.” He sighed, “I couldn’t convince _you_ to do a damn thing. That being said, I’ve never known you to run away from something that scares you but, if you do, that’s your choice.”

“It’s not, it’s not running away.” She muttered, flicking the bristles on the brush, jaw setting, “I just don’t understand why he’d choose me. Why not my mother? Or Madi? She’s far better suited to it than I ever will be.”

Clarke thought back to reading the will of her father alongside Abby and Madi. It had taken several sittings to process it all, considering the testament was highly detailed and incredibly thorough. He had appointed her of all people to take his position as the face of Arcadia. That was a huge responsibility, one that Clarke wasn’t ready to take on. She caught herself wishing, on several occasions, that he had left her out of his will completely.

“Look, I don’t know why he made the choice he did. The logical explanation is that Madi is too young and your mother already has a huge responsibility as a director, so…”

Clarke scowled at nothing in particular, starting to pull out the hairs of the paintbrush one by one, “I was never as committed to his prerogative. I don’t like what it all stands for. It’s just conforming to stupid societal, you know, _stuff_.”

He sighed, placing down his tools carefully, “Well, you do you, Griffin. But if I know you, and I do, then I know you will eventually come to terms with it and make some changes to this place. Ones that will stop it from conforming to the stupid societal stuff.”

“I _hate_ you when you’re right.”

“God, you must hate me literally all the time, then.”

Clarke tossed what was left of the paintbrush in his general direction and dropped her head back on the cushions, “Dick.”

“But a consistently correct dick.”

Clarke regretted throwing the paintbrush too soon and instead resorted to fiddling with a piece of thread on her baggy, paint-stained jumper.

“How long is your family staying here for?” Murphy asked.

“I don’t know. Dad’s funeral is in about three weeks, and I imagine Mom will stick around for a bit afterwards to make sure I don’t get suicidal, or something.”

“Do you think you will?” Murphy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Clarke creased her forehead, “What sort of question is that?”

He tilted his head to one side, “Just checking. Do I need to start hiding dangerous objects from you?”

“No, thanks, asshole.” She berated, rolling her eyes, “Your sensitivity to the subject is overwhelming.”

“Oh, come on, I’m a British male. Feelings make me… awkward. I just want to make sure you really will be okay.”

Clarke thought about it for a moment before she exhaled, “I mean, I don’t know how I’ll be in a few months’ time. All I know is that I’ve been through shit before and I’ll go through it again, but I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you will. You’re fierce, and I’m here for you.” He shrugged, “Anyway, you know you really should start paying me for these psychology sessions.”

“I pay you enough already.”

“But you should pay me _more_.”

“What for managing to fuck my head up even more than it was?”

“Now, that _would_ be an achievement.”

“Careful, Murphy. I’m a chairman now.”

“Chairperson.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“Already on fire, baby.” He scoffed, arranging his easel in place, “Anyway, we both know this academy would be in ruins without me.”

“I exercise my right not to comment.” She pushed herself off the sofa and wandered over to the rack of clothes in the far corner of the wide space, “I didn’t know you owned so much fancy dress.”

“There might be something in there to inspire your next display for my exhibition on ‘power’.”

Clarke selected a toga and somehow managed to wrap it around herself, “I could dress my subject up as Julius Caesar.”

“I mean,” He dropped his head to one side, pressing his lips together, “You look more like Jesus than Caesar.”

“Yeah? It’s the beard, right?”

He laughed, nodding, “Oh, yes. It’s definitely the beard.”

“Hey, do you have a block of wood and a carver I can use?” Clarke asked, lifting her head up as he organised his equipment in a preparative fashion, “Are you expecting someone, or something?”

“Give me a sec, and yeah. I am.” He nodded, before his arms stilled, “Oh, bollocks.”

“What?”

He offered Clarke an angelic smile, which provoked a great deal of suspicion, “I forgot to tell you. Now I’m going to end up feeling like I’m in Parent Trap, or something.”

Clarke blinked, utterly (and understandably) bemused, “Why, are you Lindsay Lohan?”

“Yes. I am both of the Lindsay Lohans about to watch you both argue, and I’m going to be torn between the two of you and half of me is going to move to America with you and the other half will stay here with her.”

“Okay, Parent Trap is a little bit of a stretch to use as an analogy. For one, I’m not married. For two…” She paused, trying to wrap her head around what he’d said, but finding herself quite unsuccessful, “Wait, who am I arguing with?” 

Before Murphy got the chance to reply, a disciplined knock cut up their conversation and Clarke suddenly paled. Of course. Lexa. He was expecting Lexa. And she was about to walk into the workshop whilst Clarke was dressed in a toga. Not _only_ a toga. But still, a toga.

Maybe she’d just assume that grief affected everybody differently.

“Looking good, Griffin.” He smirked, going to answer the door, “Miss Woods. Please, come in.”

Lexa entered the room with unfaltering grace, dressed in dark and classy autumn attire, a slight pinch to her olive cheeks. She hadn’t seen Clarke at first, and there was a brief moment where she could observe Lexa unnoticed. She was sombre, but controlled.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m babysitting at the moment.” Murphy’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he looked in Clarke’s direction, “She’s re-enacting The Last Supper.”

A furious blush crept onto Clarke’s cheeks as she tried to free herself of the white robes, but Lexa’s eyes had already caught her off-guard, shocking her with their sudden undiluted intensity. Halfway out of the toga, Clarke could feel the focused stare observing her and she did all she could to ignore it. Murphy didn’t help in the slightest. He stood motionless, watching the entire scene unfold with glee.

“You _know_ there was a very good reason for this, Judas Iscariot.” Clarke managed, stuffing the clothing back onto the rack.

“Oh?” He folded his arms, expectantly, “What was that, then?”

“As much as I love pretending to be a Roman Emperor in my spare time, I was experimenting with ideas of power for _your_ goddamn exhibition. For which, by the way, you have been no help.” She pointed a finger at him in a threatening manner, “And if any of us has had their last supper, John Murphy, that person is you.”

“I rarely eat supper anyway, so that doesn’t upset me too much. Now, why don’t you do some colouring in a nice quiet corner while I get some work done?”

Clarke offered him a sarcastic smile, very aware that Lexa had said nothing during the entire experience. Part of her would’ve liked her to say something, at least. It would have gotten rid of the terrible awkwardness.

“Actually, I should probably get going.” She said, quietly.

Murphy’s expression changed to one of subtle concern and he shook his head. Amidst his superficial mockery, he knew she wanted anything but to return back to her reality. Even if it was just for the afternoon.

“Here.” He finally grabbed a carving blade and a small block of wood, “You doing mini sculptures?”

“I was going to.” She muttered, taking the materials and going to sit on the floor with her back leaning against the couch, “Just pretend I’m not here.” She forced herself to meet the startling stare once more, deciding it was probably time she acknowledged Lexa’s presence, whilst diminishing her own.

“She’s secretly hiding from the government.” Murphy explained, unhelpfully.

Lexa arched an eyebrow, “Would now be a bad time to say I came with your arrest warrant, then?”

He laughed freely before Clarke had even processed the softly spoken humour. By the time she recognised it, her tutor had already begun talking again, directing Lexa to the seat in the middle of the linen sheet he had spread on the floor.

Clarke simply sat with lips parted in delayed response. It hadn’t escaped her notice either that Lexa had the poise of a sculpture already. Perhaps the sculpture would even be envious. She could’ve sat in an exhibition and people might not have noticed she was flesh and blood. The faint pink, her only tell, still on her cheeks from the cold just emphasised the angles of her sharp bone structure. Surely, she’d noticed Clarke stealing intrigued glances at her from the floor, but she didn’t say anything.

Clarke hadn’t equated herself as a part of the workshop. She was a spectator. A phantom – not a body. Unnoticed. Silent.

Of course, when Murphy addressed her, she was accounted for once more, “Griffin, you know sitting like that is bad for your posture.”

She blinked, returning to the room, “Oh, right. As opposed to you, hunching over the easel like Quasimodo, which is prime posturing.”

The shift in Lexa’s eyes was almost invisible. Had Clarke not been attuned to her in that moment, she wouldn’t have noticed, but she knew she had Lexa’s attention. Completely. She just didn’t know why.

“So, you were saying about experimenting with ideas of power. Tell me you weren’t picturing Wells Jaha in a toga because that’s sickening, Griffin.”

She groaned, “I wasn’t, but I am now.”

“It would be like revisiting Freshers Week all over again.”

“Thought that would’ve been you in your prime.”

“I pretend I didn’t exist before the age of 23.”

He phased into a concentrated silence after that, not ending the conversation, but merely placing it on an indefinite hold. Clarke returned to carving the wooden block, fashioning it roughly into the shape of an oak. The realisation seemed to strike her with a sense of odd amusement; she was using a tree to make a tree. She might as well have just left it as a tree. All noise, except the sound of creating art, slipped into a void. Time was barely measurable. It was irrelevant during production. Lexa hadn’t made a sound. She’d barely even moved.

“Murphy.” Clarke said quietly, placing down the blade and walking towards him, examining his work, “This time you’ve done them with too much sadness.”

He clicked his tongue, glaring at Clarke over his shoulder, “For god’s sake, Griffin. If you’re such an expert on her eyes, why don’t you have a go instead?”

At this, Lexa’s countenance flickered. Clarke noticed. If Murphy wasn’t too pissed off to have noticed himself, he might have made a comment about it.

“Well?” He held the charcoal out to her, challengingly, “No?”

She shrugged, “No. That’s okay. It’s your interpretation.”

“Oh, no. Please. Obviously, _my_ interpretation is inaccurate. Not enough sadness, too much sadness.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Clarke sighed, “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“No.” He shook his head, “No, you’re not. You’re pissed off because your Wells sculpture is weak and you’re angry at me for slagging it off, so you’re getting at my work as revenge.”

Clarke considered this as a genuine source of her behaviour, lips tugging downwards into a frown, “I mean, maybe. You do bitch about it excessively.”

“That’s because it’s excessively shite.”

Lexa had probably lost touch of the conversation, despite her being the main focus of the conversation.

“None taken.” Clarke rolled her eyes.

“No, listen to me.” Murphy had turned, lowering his hand from the canvas paper, “You are the best artist I know, Griffin. The best. You can do so much better. You can make anything a masterpiece.”

“Just not Wells?”

He looked as if he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly, but decided against it, “The creation itself is very good. I’ll give you that. But I look at it and think ‘wow, that’s really realistic’ and then I move onto another piece of work that gives me something to think about. A half-naked man is only going to get you so far.”

“Are you saying I should make him take off his trousers, too?”

“And you call me a slut.”

“That’s not what you were suggesting, then?” She teased, eventually resolving herself to stop deflecting before Murphy pulled her up on it, “I know, I know.”

“If you’re going to recreate a person, it needs to be the sort of person who can command an entire room. Like, when you performed with Wells, nobody gave a toss about him. You need somebody like you, but…”

“Not me, obviously.” She finished.

A devilish smile crept onto Murphy’s lips and he looked conspiratorially between his model and his tutee, “No. You need somebody like Lexa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all keeping well amidst the chaos in the world! Please share your thoughts with me as I absolutely adore reading your comments. They are highly motivational. Next chapter is soon to follow.
> 
> Please, look after yourselves!
> 
> Lady Of Cythera  
> xox


	7. Chapter 6 - The Artist's Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your thoughtful comments. They've been incredibly helpful and I will continue to value your thoughts and feelings throughout this story. Even in just the last week since I posted the previous chapter, the world seems to have changed so drastically, and continues to change everyday. I wanted to make each of you aware that I will do my best to update more regularly during these difficult times in the hopes of brightening your days. However, I am a nurse by occupation and I don't know what the next few weeks will bring considering everything that's going on at the moment particularly here in the UK. I am well ahead in terms of how many chapters I've written so far, so more regular updates shouldn't be too much of a problem. If there are any drastic changes that I feel you ought to be aware of (if it affects the progress of this story), I will update as such on Tumblr (the-lady-of-cythera). As I say, please look after yourselves. Stay safe and be kind to each other. 
> 
> Thank you and enjoy.
> 
> xox

“What?”

John Murphy raised his shoulders in a half-shrug, “What?”

Clarke stared at him in disbelief, arms folding across her chest.

“No, don’t look at me like that. This time, I’m serious about it.”

She shook her head, but could barely think of a response to follow.

“Look, I don’t mind you borrowing her.” Murphy gestured to Lexa Woods with his charcoal, the latter whom had been sitting very patiently throughout the heated conversation between the two artists.

Clarke glanced briefly at her, “Not that you’re an object.” She amended, on behalf of her tutor.

Lexa’s eyebrow twitched in nonchalance.

Murphy proceeded without apology, “You said I did her wrong last time and you’ve shit on this attempt, too.”

“I didn’t _shit_ on it.” Clarke protested, defensively, “I just…”

“… Shit on it. It’s fine.” He wafted a hand, dismissively, “Honestly, though, I feel like you’ve got a lot to prove at this point since, you know, you _clearly_ know how best to portray her.”

“No.” Clarke was shaking her head, “No. It’s not, it’s… no.”

“No?” He raised an eyebrow, “So, what, you’re backtracking now?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m not. I…” Clarke threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, “Lexa has come here as an agreement with you. Ignore what I said about her eyes. They’re great. Perfect, in fact. You carry on. I’ll think of something. I wouldn’t want to steal her from you.” And then, as an afterthought, she turned to Lexa once more, “Again, not that you’re an object.”

“It’s not stealing. It’s borrowing.” This time, Murphy glanced at her, “Not an object. Noted.”

“Look, we are wasting her time, Murph, and your time. Probably my time, too.”

“Yes, but you _want_ to waste time. That’s why you’re here still doing jack-shit in my workshop. So, do something. Draw her.”

“I – no.”

He looked about ready to give her a papercut, “For Christ’s sake, Griffin.” He shoved the charcoal at her rather forcefully, “Draw her.”

“She’s agreed for you to draw her. Not me. She probably doesn’t want me to.” She mumbled.

“It’s okay.”

The two artists turned to the violinist in surprise at the sound of her voice. She had barely changed her position, but she was watching with the clearest green eyes and despite their sharpness there was absolutely nothing readable in her expression whatsoever. That was the moment Clarke _knew_ why her tutor had been so desperate to draw her. There was so much in her stare. Almost too much. It would be impossible to capture everything accurately. Yet, simultaneously, it was so empty. Almost cold. Unnerving.

And honestly? Addictive.

Of course, had Clarke openly acknowledged that, even to herself, it would have been unbearable. This was a person she had spent the best part of the previous few months despising. By all accounts, Lexa had despised her, too.

For some reason, the artist still wasn’t ready to let go of all of that. Not just yet.

“I don’t mind, Clarke.” Lexa spoke up again, her voice gentle and sincere.

Clarke exhaled and chewed her lip in thought, a frequent habit of hers. One that would give her mouth ulcers if she kept it up. She stared at the charcoal in her hand and looked back to Lexa once more, “Don’t feel obliged.”

“I don’t.”

There was a beat of silence before Clarke inclined her head, “You know, though, if this goes as John is suggesting, I would need your time. Probably a lot of it. Not just today.”

“I know.”

“It will be very demanding.”

Lexa merely inclined her head, keeping Clarke’s focus pinned to her with the faintest of smiles. It could barely have passed as a twitch.

“I’m sure I will manage, Clarke.”

“Really?” Murphy laughed, and something fragile broke in the air. “You’ll manage with _her_? I doubt it.”

Lexa barely even glanced at him. She waited solely for Clarke’s response.

The latter hesitated a moment before she took a seat and rested a fresh sheet of canvas paper on the easel, shrugging, “Okay. If you need to leave, you can, and you can change your mind at any time.”

Lexa appeared almost amused, “I appreciate the ethics.”

“Clarke’s artwork probably won’t when you exit halfway through her perfecting your eyes, or something.”

“You’re not funny, Murph. Never have been.” Clarke murmured, distractedly, “So, Lexa, do you feel how you are sitting now is natural to you?”

Lexa didn’t respond.

“What I mean is that I want you unguarded for this image.”

Perhaps that just complicated things. Lexa seemed to be attempting to unpick the meaning behind Clarke’s words, but her expression remained as impassive as ever.

“Good luck to you, Griffin. She barely even blinks, never mind talks.” Murphy grinned, patting her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“Murphy, go and have a smoke or something, please. You’re not helping.”

“Fine.” He replied, tartly.

“Really?” Clarke raised an eyebrow, turning her attention back to Lexa, “You don’t blink?”

It could have been petulance had she not masked it so well, but the violinist allowed her eyes to close briefly, merely to prove a point. Clarke studied her and, admittedly, it was an odd sensation. Ordinarily, she would feel urged to tear her gaze away the moment they locked eyes. For Lexa, the feeling must have been mutual, but she was graceful enough to submit herself to scrutiny without so much as flinching. At first, there was some noticeable discomfort set deep behind her eyes and part of Clarke enjoyed the knowledge Lexa was finding this as unpleasant as she was. Pencil. Clarke decided on pencil. She needed to gauge Lexa’s outline first; if she was to recreate her for Murphy’s exhibition eventually, she would have to become completely familiar with her, sooner rather than later.

With her structure.

Visually.

For artistic purposes.

Carefully, she began to sketch her shape, eyes flickering between the still form before her and the paper. They sat in silence for a few moments, Lexa remaining perfectly statuesque. Usually, Clarke had a knack for putting people at ease. Making them comfortable. It was a gift, really. But there was so much historical resentment wedged between them that she knew it would take some untangling before they even reached neutrality. She couldn’t force it. Clarke, however, knew that Lexa was far more capable of concealing her thoughts than she was.

Asking Lexa about her home life at this point would have been a bit too invasive. From what Clarke gathered about the violinist, she was a fairly private person. Publicly, very little was so openly known about her aside from the fact she was the daughter of a successful violinist. One Clarke knew nothing about. Besides, she had never really engaged with gossip or hearsay, so if there was anything about Lexa that was considered common knowledge, Clarke knew nothing of it.

“You sit very still.”

Lexa didn’t respond. Of course, she didn’t.

“Have you modelled before?”

“No.” She returned, “Not before I came here.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows, “Never, huh? So, what made you agree to this?”

“Modelling for Murphy?” She barely moved her mouth as she spoke, such was the control she had over herself.

“No.” The artist shook her head, lifting her gaze to Lexa’s once more, “For me.”

Her facial muscles barely even twitched. Clarke thought that was the extent of her ability to converse due to the length of her silence.

Then, the stretch ended.

“Would you believe it’s because I’m feeling altruistic today?”

“No.” Clarke allowed herself a soft scoff.

The model paused.

“I don’t believe whatever it is you’re about to tell me, either.” She continued to move the pencil across the paper, nimbly.

“Okay.” Lexa conceded to speaking once more, “Tell me, then. Why did you agree to draw me?”

Clarke let her eyes flicker over to the startling pale stare, “Would you believe it’s because I can’t handle peer pressure?”

“No.” The brunette replied with surety, without displaying even a glimpse of humour. Clarke fell silent after that, focusing on the shades of Lexa’s facial structure.

“Maybe it’s narcissism.” Lexa murmured, eventually, “The reason I let you draw me.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Lexa waited for an explanation.

“I did consider it, but no. It isn’t narcissism.”

Seemingly, that didn’t satisfy her curiosity into Clarke’s certainty.

“How do you know?”

“Well, for a start, you’ve never modelled before. That’s one reason. Granted, it isn’t enough of a reason on its own.” Clarke paused as she ran the graphite along Lexa’s jawline, “Secondly, I have grown up around many, many narcissistic people. You know, I mean like, like _true_ narcissists. I have spent my life drawing most of them, studying them. Reading them. Usually, I can tell them straight off the bat, but it doesn’t take me long to weevil out the coverts, either.”

Lexa was quiet as she thought about this.

“Were you worried it was a narcissistic thing?” Clarke asked.

“I wasn’t worried about it but…” She caught herself, obviously planning out the next part of her sentence before she voiced it, “I am new to this scene. There is a culture here that almost encourages self-obsession and egotism.”

“Oh, no. It _definitely_ encourages it. There’s no ‘almost’ about it. I find it mostly in the music industry, though. One of the reasons I prefer to stick to art. I mean, Murphy’s a narcissist, but he’s self-aware about it, so I let him off.” Clarke paused as she attempted to capture the unbroken set of Lexa’s brow. “When you say you’re new to the scene, what do you mean?”

It seemed she wanted to find as little words as possible to say what she meant, but ultimately knew she would have to speak more than one simple sentence. The thought made Clarke want to smirk. Lexa wasn’t one to waste words and the thought that she might have to brought some satisfaction.

“I have almost always worked as a soloist. Very rarely did I perform with other string players. I mostly stayed local to my state. I didn’t travel around very much so I was only really recognised back home at the beginning of my career. It was a much closer community. I was gradually introduced to a more mainstream society but I still didn’t feel so central to the limelight that I could expect immediate recognition from those I idolised. I expected to continue that same independence over here, but I found that it’s impossible to work in solitude in a place like this. At the same time, there’s this constant…” She hesitated, thoughtfully.

“Pissing-contest?” Clarke supplied after a few moments.

Lexa’s inclined her head marginally, “Yes, there is that. The competition. The need to inflate yourself for recognition.”

Clarke said nothing else after that, deciding to let Lexa finalise what she wanted to say without input.

“I understand the need for it. I suppose I just don’t want to lose who I am amongst it all.”

It probably hit Clarke harder than she had expected it to. It was a relevant discussion. One she had often spent long periods thinking about. She certainly hadn’t expected to have such a conversation with Lexa, the one person she had initially assumed was too self-involved to hold any sort of depth beyond her social standing.

“As I said,” Clarke murmured softly, “I have known many people like that, and believe me when I say you are not one of them.”

Lexa seemed surprised. Clarke was starting to interpret her minor facial tics as expressions of emotion. It was the faintest movement in her lips, a careful raise of her eyebrows. That was what gave it away.

“You can read _me_ , then?” She asked.

“God, no, not yet.” The artist laughed, “If we keep doing this though, one day I think I will. At least, I’d like to.”

“You would?” The disbelief was clear in her tone, “Why?”

Clarke’s lips turned upwards into a cagy smile, “Because I don’t think anybody has ever done it before.”

“So, I’m your experiment?”

The smile widened and, for a moment, Clarke was chilling to behold, “Would you like to be?” 

Lexa’s gaze slipped from Clarke’s then, fixing on a midpoint in the air. She looked as if she was planning what to say next, but the sound of the door opening interrupted whatever flow of conversation was passing between them.

“I found a hobbit on my travels.”

Clarke glanced to the door, seeing her sister standing behind Murphy in the doorway.

“Hey, Mads!” She grinned, beckoning her over, “I thought you were checking out the high streets with Mom today.”

The switch was instant. How Clarke swapped so easily between demeanours. The natural amiability was there again. The one Lexa saw Clarke display to just about everybody.

“Yeah. We did, but she had to get back for a meeting and it was raining, so,” She shrugged, “thought I’d come find you.”

“Sure.” Clarke stood up and wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders, landing a quick kiss to the top of her head, “Murphy, do you want to go put the kettle on?”

Madi went to go and sit on the velvet couch, taking off her coat and crossing her legs on the cushions, eyes landing on Lexa in interest.

“Excuse me?” Murphy rested a hand to his chest as if affronted at the mere suggestion of him making tea.

“Tea, two sugars, please.” Madi requested.

“One sugar for me, thanks.” Clarke added, “What do you want? Coffee?” She asked, looking to Lexa.

It seemed the question stumped the model, and she just shook her head slightly.

“Three teas then, please.” She decided, despite Murphy’s evident disapproval at being appointed the tea-maker.

“Do I _look_ like a slave?” He demanded.

Clarke glanced him up and down and shook her head, “No, but I did see some leathers amongst your clothing rack, so if you put those on, we might be onto a winner.”

Murphy rolled his eyes, “Normally, that would tempt me, but we have minors present.”

“I’m almost 18.” Madi raised an eyebrow, “Does that mean I’m still a minor?”

“What? Haven’t you _just_ had your 12th birthday?” He smirked.

Madi looked for something she could throw at him, but he’d already sulked off into the kitchen room opposite his workshop, leaving Lexa alone with the Griffin sisters. Madi was watching the art in mild fascination, picking up the partially formed wooden tree Clarke had been carving. She played with it in her hands, eyes shifting between the canvas paper and the model.

“You okay, kid?” Clarke murmured.

Her sister shrugged, “Tired.”

“Aren’t you sleeping?”

“Not much. Why, are you?”

Clarke hinted at a smile as she worked, “Not much.”

“I’m just ready for the next part, really.”

“Next part?”

“Of life.” She sighed.

“I’m probably supposed to say something wise about not wishing your time away in light of everything that’s happened, but I gotta say I agree with ya.” Clarke expressed a breath of laughter, matched by her sister.

“Well, not long till I’m here for good.”

Lexa had no intention of letting herself be noticed as she watched the interaction between the Griffin sisters. There was a tenderness; a deep concern. Of course, Clarke could display an unsettling amount of warmth when she chose to. In this scenario though, there was no choice involved at all. It was natural and unfiltered. The two sisters spoke at length about London, the academy, their hometown; Lexa observed the Southern twang becoming increasingly more pronounced the longer she spoke to Madi. Madi, herself, didn’t have such a thick accent either. Not quite as heavy as their father’s was. But audible, still.

And Lexa listened to every word.

“So,” Clarke adopted a teasing edge to her tone, “who’re ya seeing back home?”

Murphy returned with a tray of tea and Madi clapped her hands together, “Perfect timing, Murph. We could all use a break.”

He handed out the mugs to everybody and dropped into a beanbag next to the sofa, leaning back, “Why’s that?”

“Madi wants to avoid talking to me about her love life.”

“Yes, because it’s non-existent and boring.”

“How can it be boring if it doesn’t exist?” Clarke asked, placing down her pencil and glancing up to Lexa for a moment, who seemed as though she would prefer nothing more than to remain a part of the furniture.

“Exactly.” Madi agreed vacantly, her eyes settling on the model once again, “Oh, my god, hang on. I’ve just realised. It’s you! You’re the violinist.”

Had she not been dismayed at being involved in conversation a smirk might have threatened to shape her lips. Clarke had said to Lexa very much the same thing Madi had, except the older sister had intended it as an accusation.

“And you’re the dancer. Contemporary, if I’m not mistaken?” Lexa countered, holding the warmth of her mug in her lap.

“I am.” Madi nodded, blinking in surprise, “Although, usually people don’t recognise me for that. Usually, it’s ballet.”

Lexa let a small smile grace her lips, “And I’m sure they are only two of many talents you have.”

“I’m terrible at art.” She returned, shrugging.

“Just like your sister, then.” Murphy interjected, to which Clarke threw a piece of charcoal at him. It seemed the Griffins enjoyed directing objects at the art tutor.

“It’s the _only_ thing she’s bad at.” Clarke rolled her eyes, “She absorbed literally every other talent possible.”

The youngest Griffin smirked, teasingly, “Like a sponge.”

“Like a pain in my ass.”

Madi turned her attention to Lexa, “So, you do art, too?”

“No.” She said, softly.

“She _is_ the art.” Murphy emphasised, sipping at his tea.

“And another pain in my ass.” It was the first hint of mischief Clarke had directed towards her since they had non-verbally established some kind of common ground between them.

“Probably not quite the pain in the ass I have from sitting on this stool for so long.” She managed to ignore the thing that passed across her chest.

“If it makes you feel any better, Clarke used to force me to sit still for hours on end. For 17 years.” Madi offered, “So, you do not suffer alone.”

“That does ease the pain a little, yes.”

“So, you guys been friends long, or…?”

Murphy did nothing to ease the sudden strenuous stretch of silence, slurping inappropriately at his tea.

“No. Not long.” Clarke replied, after clearing her throat, “So, can we get back to you talking about your boring and non-existent love life, Mads?”

“Look,” Madi sighed, “I’m seeing nobody. Nothing is happening. Life is boring. I’ve been studying for exams, dancing, going to music lessons, and leading no exciting social life whatsoever. Also, I don’t mean this as a prejudiced generalisation, but I spend most of my time doing ballet. I’m not exactly _surrounded_ by hetero males. There. You live in the centre of London surrounded by a, a diverse population of talented academics. _Hot_ academics. Academics with more intellect that sense. If any of us has something interesting to share about their love life, that is definitely you.”

“That is quite the speech.” Clarke glanced at her sister over the rim of her teacup.

“So, come on, then. Spill.” Madi dragged the word out, her expression expectant.

“Well, there are plenty of hetero males here, but they mostly turn out like John Murphy, so…” Clarke shrugged, placing down her teacup and turning back to Lexa, who remained seated with her tea cupped in hands.

“Well, even then, I dabble in the odd rendezvous.” Murphy wafted a hand, dismissively.

“See?” Clarke waved in his direction with her free hand, “He gets off with _one_ guy when drunk and thinks he’s part of the club.”

“There’s a club?” He tapped his chin in interest.

“Yes. You’re not invited, though.”

“You can’t choose my sexuality for me, Griffin.” Murphy laughed, “Besides, imagine the possibilities it would open for me. Having the pick of _both_ species.”

“You can’t even get the pick of one, never mind both.” Clarke ribbed despite the fact she was highly off-base. Murphy seemed the character to always get what he wanted. He just never _really_ knew exactly what it was he wanted.

“You’re just saying that because you’re jealous I’ll get all the best ones. You can’t have them all, Griffin.”

“Yes, I am overwhelmed with jealousy.” Clarke responded, completely dead-pan.

“So, to clarify, you’re not seeing anybody right now?” Madi asked, tapping her fingertips together lightly.

“No.”

“Come on, seriously?” Madi shook her head, “You have double the choice, Clarke! Out of everybody, statistically speaking, you’re the most likely to actually get with someone.”

“Double the choice.” She rolled her eyes in response, “It doesn’t always work like that, kid.”

“Sure, it does. You could have _literally_ anyone.”

“But I don’t want _literally_ anyone.” Clarke returned.

“Griffin,” Murphy interjected, “your sister is right. You lounge around twice a week facilitating life drawing classes with a bunch of attractive naked people.”

“This is why _I’m_ the facilitator and not you, Murph. You’d have a restraining order by now.”

“And many children, probably.” Madi added.

“No. Not if I was to only sleep with men.”

Clarke had lost count how many times she’d rolled her eyes, “You’d make a very good twink actually.”

“You think?” He fluttered his eyelashes.

Madi laughed, glancing him up and down, “How have I not seen this before?”

“Because the last time you saw me was probably at the Proms of last year, right?”

“Sure.” She nodded.

“Exactly. Your brain was young and naïve at the innocent age of 10.”

“16.”

“That’s what I said.”

Madi smirked, “Was my brain too innocent to recall that you accidentally booked yourself two dates?”

He flashed a devilish grin, “You remember that?”

“We all do, Murph.” Clarke muttered, “You made it impossible to forget when you bragged for weeks to come about getting to take both of them home together. And you call _me_ greedy.”

“Yet here you are, dateless.” He sighed, “Tragic.”

Lexa could feel the blood gently rising to her cheeks, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. She had expected somebody at some point to say something to demoralise or degrade non-heteronormative culture. But they hadn’t. Her Aunt had always shown open distaste towards homosexuality and Lexa was fully accustomed to feeling a sense of discomfort whenever the topic was brought up but not for the same reasons as Alie. Yet, the other occupants in the room spoke about it openly. Sure, they discussed the subject with a sense of humour but not without a level of respect. As Clarke let her eyes settle on her, Lexa’s heart pounded, and she realised then that it wasn’t because she was ashamed.

“So, there’s _nobody_ at all?” Madi raised an eyebrow, teasingly.

“Nope, not since you asked me about five minutes ago. There’s nobody.” The artist continued to sketch, her eyes flickering to and from Lexa’s as she focused on capturing her glacial stare.

“Well, why not?”

Clarke shrugged, slipping back into the zone of creativity, “Busy, mostly.”

“Yeah, but surely you socialise. I mean, what do you do for fun? Not that being cooped up in this weird-smelling hole isn’t a blast, or anything.”

Neither party responded.

“I’ll just talk to myself then, shall I?” She rolled her eyes, “What’s the nightlife like?”

“I mean,” Clarke began, her eyes shifting back up to Lexa’s, “Sure, there’s a nightlife in London, apparently. Or, so I’ve heard.”

“Oh, my god. You’re so old. Both of you.” She directed to Clarke and Murphy, “What about you, violinist? Surely you lead a solidly interesting life outside of music, or whatever.”

Clarke found herself tuning into the expectation of Lexa’s voice and found herself almost disappointed, but unsurprised, at the demure silence.

“There’s a few bars on site. The Orion is probably the best one, though.” Clarke filled in the gap, “I’ve never been much of a party-goer. You’re best asking Murphy. He’s thinks of himself as a social butterfly.”

“More of a moth, really.” He shrugged, smiling ruggedly.

“I was expecting a lot more drama.” Madi mused, exhaling in dissatisfaction.

“Oh, I never said there wasn’t any drama.” He smirked, looking over at Clarke with a fiendish glint in his eye, “Your sister attracts all kinds of histrionics.”

“Histrionics that can be discussed when I’m _not_ working. Murphy, why don’t you do Madi’s makeup or something? Or vice-versa.”

“Can we?” Madi turned to Murphy with a charming smile; one she knew got her whatever she wanted. One that wasn’t dissimilar to her sister’s.

One Lexa had seen a few times at most, but one she hadn’t forgotten.

“Alright, go sit in front of the mirrors, then.” He muttered, going to fetch his materials.

“I’m still interested in hearing all about the drama, though.”

“Not while I’m working.” Clarke interjected before Murphy could open his mouth, “Or I’m throwing you both out.”

She wasn’t far off finishing. There were a few parts of the image she would have liked to perfect before she decided she was done. As Murphy and Madi delved into conversation of their own, Clarke moved her gaze to her model’s, “How often are you free, Lexa?”

When Lexa didn’t reply straight away, Clarke cleared her throat as if to dislodge whatever faint resentment she still harboured, “I mean, I know evenings are predominantly taken for you, right?”

Something crossed her features; something of a subtle surprise. 

“I mean, most people are busy in the evenings.” She quickly amended, hiding her face behind the easel, “I just wanted to get an idea of your schedule so I can plan our sessions around it, that’s all.”

Lexa was almost amused. She was quickly learning that her silence left Clarke uncertain and flustered, and she enjoyed that far too much. Perhaps she still got off on the idea of Clarke feeling uncomfortable. Their natural distaste towards the other wasn’t going to dissolve overnight. It was likely to linger for some time to come despite their mutual acknowledgement that they were more connected than they were each comfortable with.

Besides, there was something irritatingly likeable in Clarke’s character. That had been the reason behind Lexa’s rudeness in the first place. She didn’t have time to like people or she would become distracted. Distractions were things she couldn’t afford.

“It varies.” She said, finally.

“Well, I’m glad you cleared that up.” Clarke replied sarcastically, eventually clapping her hands together and standing up.

Lexa followed her movements with her gaze, watching as she picked up her paper from the easel. She was curious. The young blonde walked towards where she was sitting and passed her the image, “Here.”

Lexa let her eyes drop to the creation and found her jaw suddenly slack. It was completely different to Murphy’s interpretation. Out of all of her features, Clarke had poured the most detail into her stare. It was heavy. The intensity was almost impossible to decipher. There was a mild downward pull at the corner of her lips.

Even Lexa found herself troubled at the way Clarke had captured her.

“This,” Lexa began, managing to clear her throat quietly, “this is how you see me?”

Clarke shrugged, “Are you puzzled by it?”

Slowly, she nodded, “A little.”

This seemed to satisfy the artist and she smiled in understanding. Lexa wasn’t sure what to say. She glanced back up to Clarke, a slight furrow to her brow, “I puzzle you?”

“Puzzle me. Infuriate me. Surprise me. Yes.” Clarke turned away to clear away her equipment. She didn’t even flinch at her own honesty. If anything, Lexa felt that Clarke saw her honesty as a victory, “And Murphy’s right.” She glanced back to the violinist once more, “From an artistic perspective, you really are an experience to draw.”

Lexa couldn’t decide whether she ought to have been complimented or offended. She opted for a safe silence instead and held the paper back to Clarke, who just shook her head.

“Keep it. Maybe you can solve the puzzle and give me the answers next time.”

The violinist tucked the picture away in her handbag, “I think that if either of us is a puzzle, it’s you, Clarke.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, Clarke swallowing thickly before she opened her mouth, “Well, will you let me know your availability?”

Lexa reached into her purse and produced a small business card. It had been Anya’s idea and Lexa had initially rejected the idea, hating the thought of using anything remotely pretentious. She had changed her mind when Anya reminded her that she would have to write down her number every time somebody asked for her contact details.

“Not sure I need a violinist, but thanks.”

Lexa arched an eyebrow, “If you want something to submit into Murphy’s exhibition, then you do.”

Clarke tucked the card into her back pocket, “Touché. I’ll be in touch.”

Lexa bowed her head and glanced over to the others in the room and bid them farewell.

“Yeah, thanks for today.” John Murphy waved a makeup brush in her direction.

“M’sure I’ll see ya ‘round.” Madi tried to talk through still lips, lest he smudge the makeup.

Lexa left, tucking her chin behind her coat collar to block the bitterness of the wind. Clarke had shown another side that afternoon. It was understandable considering she was with her sister and her tutor – the latter seeming to hold some sort of familial bond with her. She noticed the moment that Clarke had recalled herself, or rather, the ones she had recalled Lexa. Her jaw would suddenly tighten and her eyes would drop a hue darker. It was barely noticeable, but Lexa noticed.

She could feel the divide. It would be a lie to herself even to suggest that her connection with Clarke would be one of comfort or ease. But to have an image of herself in John’s exhibition, that would be something of noteworthy value.

The vibration of her phone tipped her out of her reverie, and she retrieved the device from her bag. It was an unknown caller. Surely it couldn’t have been Clarke already.

“Lexa Woods speaking.” She managed an even-toned greeting, despite the quickening of her pulse.

“ _Hi, Lexa. It’s Abby Griffin here. I apologise for disturbing you, but I wondered if you had a couple of minutes to talk?_ ”

Lexa stopped walking altogether. Internally, she was mere breaths away from a panic attack. Shockingly, she managed to regain control over the pounding of her heart.

“Of course, ma’am. How can I help?”

“ _Abby is fine_.” She stated, “ _Anya Crainn gave me your card so I could contact you myself. She said you prefer to be spoken to directly rather than through her_.”

“That’s correct, yes.” Lexa found that her brain hadn’t quite caught up with the conversation at that moment.

“ _I know you’re likely on a very busy schedule, so I’ll get straight to the point. My husband’s funeral will be on the 29 th. Two weeks this Friday. Would you be available to perform a violin duet with Anya? I appreciate it’s short notice and I fully understand if you are already booked._”

Abby’s manner of speaking was not too different to Clarke’s; firm, expectant, but warm all the same. The main thing differentiating the two was the accent. Abby wasn’t from the South as the rest of the family were.

“It would be an honour.” She returned with sincerity.

“ _You’re sure? I understand it’s short notice._ ”

“I am.”

How could she be anything other than sure for such a request?

“ _Thank you, Lexa. That means a great deal to me. I know it would to him, too. I will let you go in a moment, but I just wanted to commend you on your profound and emotive performance at The Proms. It truly was an incredible interpretation._ ”

Lexa felt her throat swell. She could barely process it. Abby Griffin, Jake’s wife, a fierce and respectable leader amongst the music and dance industry, had sought her out personally.

“Thank you, Abby.” She swallowed, thickly, “ _That_ means a great deal to me.”

“ _Not at all. I will send the sheet music over to Anya’s office this evening. Thanks again._ ”

Once the call ended, Lexa stood with the phone in her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. She was conflicted for two reasons. Although it was an excellent opportunity, she could not justifiably celebrate it as such because, to get to this point, Jake Griffin had to die. Lexa thought about Clarke, just briefly, about how Clarke continued on despite her loss. About how she showed humour, even kindness. Sure, she’d shown sass and bitterness too, but that was pre-existing and even diminished somewhat. She blinked and slid her phone back into her bag, pushing the thoughts away.

In the span of a few months, Lexa’s entire life had drastically changed. More than she ever could have imagined. But she had the feeling that she was only just staring into the mouth of transformation. The rest was yet to come.


	8. Chapter 7 - Soul Set Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, firstly I just want to apologise for the confusion yesterday. I did pop a little note on Tumblr about it (well done me for operating Tumblr!) but for those who didn't see that, I'll give a quick explanation as to what happened. In my sleep-deprived form, I accidentally duplicated a chapter just before I set off for work. I couldn't even tell you why. Fortunately a couple of people alerted me to the error so I got chance to delete it on my phone. I had planned on uploading the correct chapter once I got home from work last night, however I was very late finishing my shift and had to be back at work again six hours later the next morning so didn't get chance. I do apologise again for the mistake and hope it didn't cause too much confusion! Here is the correct chapter.
> 
> Again, thank you to those who continue to offer their support during these dark times. Due to the nature of what I do, I have often found solace in solitude and that is certainly the case today! Although it has just been a week since our government-enforced lockdown, I know many people are feeling the negative effects from it already. So, wherever you are, whatever is happening for you, please continue to be kind and stay safe!! Also, I really don't know how often to upload updates because I get very excited and worry that I'm uploading too frequently, or not enough!
> 
> That aside, please enjoy. 
> 
> Thank you  
> xox

In the couple of weeks that followed, Clarke shared no correspondence with her newfound art project. Ultimately, she had cleaved to the knowledge she had far more responsibility than she wished for and found herself consumed entirely by it all. But she was a Griffin. She was bound by her genetics to lead in one way or another. For the sake of her father, she made a silent agreement to wait until after the funeral before she returned her focus back to herself. She used the time to shadow her mother to meetings, to contribute to planning, to spend time with her sister, but more importantly, to use her grief and resentment to fuel her fire. Her father didn’t want to leave his family. Despite everything else, she knew that at least. She also knew he wanted Clarke to thrive. He was desperate for it.

So, she decided that she would.

Of course, it meant other aspects of her life had fallen into the black. She hadn’t seen her friends for a number of weeks. Not properly. She’d not visited her own art workspace, either. Mostly, it was all left untouched. She worked on a small wooden carving each night before bed simply just to wind down. But everything else was focused on her father and intentions of living up to his expectations. Expectations that were now set in stone; expectations that couldn’t be altered.

It was hard.

Harder than she could have ever anticipated.

She was exhausted. All the time. But she was strong. She had to be.

Now, she sat between her mother and sister, staring to the front of the chapel. Her family wasn’t religious, but the London cathedral was where Mathias Jakob Griffin had been laid to rest, and Jake’s father, too. He had requested for the same, wishing to be amongst his ancestors. On top of that, the cathedral was huge, heaving with people, making the air feel almost unbreathable. The service itself was being televised – so if there was ever an opportunity to let oneself actually feel the heartbreak and show it, it wasn’t then.

At least, not for Clarke.

For the rest of the public, they didn’t mind showing their tears. Their faces wouldn’t be remembered.

But Clarke’s would. So would her mother’s. So would her sister’s.

Theirs would be remembered and they would be judged. Show enough emotion but don’t show too much emotion; be strong enough to be respected but be weak enough to be pitied. 

Although there was still much to be addressed, much to debate, Clarke didn’t feel quite so tightly wound as she’d expected to when she saw the violinist at her father’s funeral. Rather, she didn’t feel tightly wound in the way she had expected to. There was still something of a powerful fist squeezing each lung in her chest, but it wasn’t accompanied by that asphyxiated dread she’d experienced the first time she saw her play. Her heart fluttered, maybe missed a beat or two, as she watched both Anya and Lexa take a stand; two perfectly poised professionals, side by side. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was about to see the coffin that caused the palpitations. The one that held the shell of her deceased father. A man that had existed her entire life; a man who had given her that life; a man _so full_ of life. Now a man who was nothing more than a preserved carbon corpse in a box.

It could have made her sick.

She trained her eyes on the violinists instead, glad for the distraction. They held themselves with such grace, each a reflection of the other. Then the music began. The sort of sound one would expect to hear on their way to the heavens. When they played together, Clarke knew along with the rest of the gatherers, that the melody alone made the weight of the coffin easier to bear.

For Lexa, she was utterly focused. Completely undistracted. She tried to carry the burden with her bow and weave it into something of a promise against the strings. A promise that Jake’s spirit would linger behind for just long enough. She could feel the unity of Anya beside her in the way they had rehearsed, each part supporting the other.

Men with solemn faces carried the coffin towards the front of the congregation. The sounds of choked sobs rose above the well-paced footsteps, and the sorrow rippled over the rows of people in pulsing waves. Lexa couldn’t bring herself to look at their faces. Not right then. She couldn’t lose the momentum of the music, and she feared that if she looked up, she would find her technique influenced by the raw devastation she beheld. She would have been reminded of the grief she had felt for her own mother. In a solo, that would have been acceptable. In a duet, it would cause dissonance. Only when the music ended did she allow herself to look. She recognised Thelonious Jaha and Marcus Kane, two of the academy’s directors. The former she had only recently learned was Wells’ father. She hadn’t seen the other coffin-bearers before. One of them had a vague family resemblance to the family but, beyond that, she was uncertain who they were.

Lexa looked to Anya as they took their seats, and then she looked at Clarke.

She was sitting between her mother and sister on the front row. Although each of them appeared naturally affected in some manner, none of the Griffin females were shedding tears. Lexa had wondered if Clarke was too overcome to express how she felt, but she saw instead Clarke gently squeezing her mother’s hand. Abby’s jaw was trembling, just slightly, and the touch of her daughter’s hand must have provided her with something settling because she closed her eyes for a moment and fell still. Madi was disconnected, staring ahead towards the direction of her father’s coffin, but she probably wasn’t seeing it at all. Clarke squeezed her hand too. She leaned to Madi and murmured something quietly into her ear. The youngest Griffin blinked and nodded, lifting her head a little higher. Lexa watched, almost reverently, at the way Clarke grounded her family, despite the turmoil she must have been experiencing too.

Deep blue eyes slid upwards and they connected. Briefly. But it was enough to leave Lexa’s neck burning. Clarke was unreadable at first, but the light of acknowledgement passed over her glassy eyes before she looked away.

The service was conducted professionally but it targeted the general population. If anything, Jake’s family remained an ornament of the funeral, rather than the centre. Clarke’s countenance barely changed. She remained a beacon of strength, and rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder as Abby was introduced and called to the pulpit.

“As many of you know, my husband was a man of endless passion, of talent and intelligence. It seemed he frequently made the impossible seem attainable, such was the determination of his spirit. Yet, his soul was never meant to be bound. It was always supposed to be free. When his body couldn’t keep up with his desire to achieve the boundless reaches of the universe, his beautiful soul was set free. Although he leaves behind him a generation of heartbreak, he would never wish to be held captive by the constraints of mortality. Our beloved daughters, Clarke and Madison, will carry his legacy with the talented and careful hands he has given them and they will do him proud. Just as each of you have done him proud. Just as he has done all of us proud.”

Lexa saw Clarke’s fingers squeeze Madi’s with reassurance again as she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Abby brought her speech to a close, managing to keep her voice as level as she possibly could. There was a respectful silence that followed as she resumed her seat beside her daughter.

Once the necessary part of the funeral was over, the crowds stood to their feet and filed out of the chapel in an orderly fashion, the family taking the lead. Lexa knew that they would be faced with the endless condolences, most likely well-intended, but still difficult to hear. 

Both Lexa and Anya were to play the outro music until there was nobody left in the chapel. Even when the last member of the congregation had left, they both continued to play until the very end. As practiced.

Lowering their violins, the two string-players stood in silence for a moment. Anya eventually turned to Lexa and inclined her head, respectfully. She returned the gesture with equal sincerity.

“I’ll see to clearing up. You go.” Lexa jerked her head to the door and went to place her violin in its case.

“You’re not coming?”

“To the Wake? No.” Lexa shook her head

“Why?”

She shrugged, plucking out the most believable reason from an array of reasons, “I wouldn’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”

Anya sighed, “Look, one day, you will probably become close to the Griffins in one way or another and even if you don’t join in with the intimate mourning or whatever, it’s okay to show your face. Abby would expect you to be there.”

She hesitated, “I don’t think she would notice, Anya.”

“It isn’t about her though, is it?” Anya’s expression softened as she zipped up her violin case, “You’re afraid Clarke will be mad at you if you go, aren’t you?”

“I’m not afraid of it, no.”

“You know the two of you are a lot more alike than you think.”

Lexa expelled a humourless laugh, “Is that so?” She asked, distracting herself with her case.

“Yes. I get you both have some inexplicable vendetta against each other, but I can’t imagine her putting that before her own father’s funeral.”

“It’s not a vendetta. At least, it’s not for me. Not anymore. Clarke has a lot to deal with right now. Even if we are mending fences, we aren’t _there_ , yet.”

Anya shrugged, offering Lexa a half smile despite the severity of her stare, “As I say, you’re both a lot more alike than you think. I’m not saying you should become bosom buddies, or whatever.”

“Bosom buddies?”

Anya ignored her, “But if you _are_ planning on mending fences, now is the time to do it.”

Lexa glanced to the chapel walls, the intricate stained-glass windows casting translucent colours onto the stone floor, “She needs time to grieve, Anya. I will make amends when, and only when, she’s ready.”

“God, I never had you down as the soft sort.”

“Soft?” Lexa laughed. This time it carried a little more amusement. “I’m just more concerned about her detaching my limbs.”

“So, you _are_ afraid.” Anya teased, although there was something hollow to her tone, “Listen, I would like you to be there, but I understand why you don’t want to be. When I said you and Clarke were both alike, I meant that you’re both incredibly stubborn but you’re also both incredibly kind. You might not think I know that about you, Lexa, but I do.”

Lexa said nothing and just raised her eyebrows.

“I know you did this without pay.”

She just shrugged and looked away, “How can I charge the family of the man who made all of this possible?”

“Some people would.” Lexa didn’t say anything until Anya exhaled and stepped away from the podium, “Well, maybe I’ll catch a drink with you at the Orion tonight instead?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She waited until Anya had gone before she finished tidying up their materials. She then picked up the unused folded music-stand off the floor and took it round the back of the chapel to the store room. She could say, with confidence, that she wasn’t expecting to see Clarke leaning against one of the amp speakers stacked to the wall, cross-legged on the floor. She could also say, with confidence, that Clarke most likely hadn’t expected to see her either.

When their eyes met, the artist’s lips parted and she sat up, spine straightening into something rigid, “What, what are you doing here?”

Cautiously, Lexa raised the metal object in her hand, “Returning the music-stand.”

“But you didn’t use a music-stand.” She replied, evidently deeply troubled by this.

“No, I didn’t.” Lexa placed the stand on the shelf next to the others, “We just used it during practice earlier this morning.”

“Right.” Clarke nodded, tilting her head back and staring at the dusty wall opposite. The violinist hesitated, not wishing to overstep the mark, but equally finding it difficult not to address the fact that Jake’s daughter was sitting in a store cupboard at his funeral.

“Are you…” She jutted her chin out, “Are you okay?”

The blonde shrugged, “Do you care?”

She twitched one shoulder, “Enough to ask, yes.”

“Well, then… no. Not particularly.”

Lexa waited, music-stand still in hand.

“What, you still care?”

She took a step forward and finally placed it down, sitting atop a wooden box, hands resting in her lap, “Enough to listen, yes.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” Clarke muttered, Lexa receiving her stare evenly and fully, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” The brunette confirmed, “I’m serious.”

“Why?” Clearly, Clarke wasn’t about to put her trust in such a questionable source. Not easily, at least.

“Because, Clarke, you’re hiding in an old store room at your father’s funeral. Shouldn’t you be at the burial, or the Wake?”

At this, she rested her elbows on her knees, “The burial’s finished. Anyway, I’m not… _hiding_.” She mumbled, not without petulance, “I’m just sitting.”

“Avoidance is still avoidance, regardless of how you’re doing it.”

She rolled her eyes and glanced away, “Obviously I’m not as avoidant as I’d like to be. You still managed to find me.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow, “I can assure you it wasn’t intentional.”

“But you’re still here now.” Clarke pointed out, the back of her head landing against the amp speaker with a dulled thump, “That’s intentional.”

The violinist looked as if she might have groaned impatiently, but instead simply took a steady breath inward, “I can go.” She said, easily.

“Why would you stay?”

This time, Lexa couldn’t stop the irritated exhale, “You ask a lot of questions, Clarke Griffin.”

The blonde blinked at her, without response.

“I’m staying because I would like you to know that, amidst all of the public bereavement, there are those that are thinking of you.”

She tilted her head to one side, eyelids sliding halfway closed, “Yeah, they’re wondering how a young female, such as myself, could possibly be half as successful as her male predecessors before her.”

She was being unpicked, piece by piece, by an intrigued pale green stare and she could feel the heaviness of it as she had so many times before.

“Presumably you’re referring to yourself,” Lexa said, “Not just somebody like you.”

Clarke, at least, managed a sarcastic smile, “God, nothing gets by you, does it?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter how much preparation time you’re given for such a responsibility and for such a loss, it never feels like enough.”

Clarke was quiet for a moment, seeming to consider her next words this time. Then, after much thought, she rolled her head lazily to face Lexa again, “That would be true, except I didn’t have any time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know.”

Lexa angled her head to one side and Clarke released a prolonged breath.

“About my father’s illness. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he wanted me to take his place, either. Not until after he died.” She shrugged, “He kept it from us, our family. I got a call from my mom one morning. To my knowledge, my dad was fine. I was supposed to be seeing him at the Proms. Then, a few hours later, he was gone. Just like that.”

Lexa wisely said very little.

“So, really, people are right to speculate my competency.”

Lexa lowered herself to the floor opposite the artist and carefully folded her legs beneath her, “Are they?”

“ _Aren’t_ they?”

“I saw you today. During the service.” She could feel her own chest fluttering as she spoke and she tried desperately to ignore it, “Your family sought strength and comfort in you, Clarke, and from what I could see, they found it. Whatever it is that you’re faced with, I don’t doubt that you will overcome it. You will succeed your own expectations and probably the expectations of others, too.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then you’ll be in no worse position that you’re in now.”

She scoffed, quietly, “That’s hardly helpful. I’m currently in a terribly shitty position.”

Lexa quirked an eyebrow as if that proved her point, “So, realistically, you don’t have a choice, do you? Either you stay where you are, or you get up and fight.”

Clarke clicked her tongue, “Can’t I just opt out of all this instead?”

“No. Even if you had the choice, I don’t think you would. You don’t strike me as the sort to run away from who you are.”

“You don’t know me.” She set her jaw, stubbornly. 

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t know you.” Lexa rested her palms on her thighs, eyes suddenly bearing hard into blue, “So, feel free to tell me I’m wrong.”

Clarke’s lips fell shut involuntarily.

“Go on.” The brunette pushed, “Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong about you.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You’re relentless.” Clarke ran a hand through her hair, her cheeks visibly turning pink even through the shadows, “But… you’re not wrong. Annoyingly. Anyway, what gives you the right to be so omniscient? How do you know people are thinking of me?”

Lexa rose to her feet, although due to her height, she was required to duck a little, “Because, Clarke, I was thinking of you.”

Clarke didn’t catch the expression that accompanied her answer because the violinist had turned away to walk towards the door, betraying nothing of her thoughts beyond the words she had spoken.

“You were?”

She glanced over her shoulder, fingers resting on the door handle, “Yes.”

“Why?” It wasn’t an accusation.

Lexa allowed herself the smallest hint of an empathetic smile, “It doesn’t matter. I hope everything goes well at the Wake.”

“Wait, you’re not coming?” She pushed herself to stand upright, arms hanging loosely by her sides.

“No.”

“You’re not going with Anya?”

“I believe she’s going with her husband.” Lexa replied, pulling the door open a crack.

Clarke took a step forwards, “Not to be presumptuous, but I hope the reason you’re not going isn’t because of me.”

“That is quite presumptuous.” She teased softly and Clarke felt the blood blossom beneath her skin once more, “By the looks of things, you’re not even going yourself.”

Clarke shrugged, defensively, “I was on my way.”

“The store room was clearly just an effective detour.”

“Exactly.” She agreed, adamantly.

A silence passed between them before Lexa bowed her head and took a step through the door, “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait,” She swallowed, thickly, “I get it if you don’t want to go to the Wake. Hell, _I_ don’t want to go to the Wake.”

This didn’t come as a surprise to Lexa.

“But,” Clarke continued, “I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome there. You are.”

“I appreciate that.” She seemed like she meant it.

“But you’re still not going?”

An expression of conflict passed over her sharp features as she seemed to seriously consider it for a moment, “I don’t think so. But please send my apologies to your mother. It isn’t a personal thing against you, Clarke.”

“Then, what is it?”

“It’s something else.” Her gaze quickly became shielded, “It doesn’t matter.”

Clarke watched the brunette, the light behind her eyes suddenly flickering in understanding, “I won’t pry, but I appreciate funerals can be difficult for people for many reasons. Whatever the reasons are for you, I hope you know that they do matter.”

Lexa swallowed, fighting to find her voice, “I hope all goes well for you at the Wake. Again, please send my apologies to your mother.”

She nodded, a blonde curl slipping out of place from her updo. She chewed her lip in thought, pushing the stray lock behind her ear, “Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch, you know. I guess it’s just my default setting when I’m around you, which I know is inexcusable. It isn’t how I was brought up and it isn’t something you deserve. At least, not anymore and certainly not today.”

Lexa said very little, but gave a dismissive twitch of her finger.

“I’m sure I don’t need to say this to you either but the duet you performed with Anya today was, well, it was perfect. It felt good to hear.” She quickly went on before the brunette could thank her, “And about what I said at the Proms. I haven’t forgotten. I still meant what I said.”

Lexa inclined her head, “I also meant what I said. When you’re ready we can evaluate our arch-rivalry. If I’m lucky, you might even find an alternative default setting.” She said it with a smile lacing her lips. One that Clarke found altogether too difficult not to notice. Altogether too difficult not to return.

“I might. Maybe, if we’re really lucky, you’ll even pretend to enjoy company once in a while.”

A softness touched the corners of her mouth and Lexa let her eyes brush over Clarke’s once more, “Maybe. Goodbye, Clarke.”

She left the door slightly ajar, a reinforcing reminder that the young Griffin still had places she needed to be and that she couldn’t afford to give up. Not right then.

.::.::.::.::.::.

When she heard the voice on the way into the well-established venue, Clarke barely considered it as a piece of her immediate reality. Surely it had been another’s. It couldn’t be his.

“Hey – Clarke!”

There it was again. But he couldn’t be here. He _couldn’t_.

But as she turned, her disbelieving eyes fell on a familiar face. One that used to be full of boyish charm. One that now was harder; chiselled by adulthood. His hair was clipped short, a stark difference to the floppy brown mop she had been used to. He remained athletic in his build, perhaps even more so than she remembered. He was still handsome too. Clarke would have been deceiving herself if she was to say otherwise. But his appearance didn’t hold the same appeal as it once did. It never would.

Her lips shaped his name, but no sound followed.

He jogged towards her, moving his arms to gape wide as if he thought it would be an inviting offer to embrace him, “C’mere, princess.”

Instead, Clarke fell back a step as he approached, “Finn,” she managed, “what, what are you doing here?”

Finn blinked, grin fading, “Well, the same thing as everyone else.”

Clarke could hardly bring herself to speak.

“And I thought…” Finn took a step closer, looking at her beneath thick lashes, “I thought you could use the support.”

“I’m okay. I don’t really need the support at the moment. I just need to find my family.”

He gestured behind him, “They’re fine. I told them I’d grab you when I found you.”

“I don’t need _grabbing_.” Clarke felt her jaw clench as she sidestepped past him, heading in the direction of the main hall. Her journey was short-lived as a warm hand reached out and took a hold of hers.

“Clarke, just… hang on a minute. What’s going on?” His brow furrowed, “I’m not here to cause problems for you.” At the flash of her eyes, he released her hand.

“I’m sorry.” She pressed her fingers to her right temple briefly, “I know you’re not. I just need to be around family right now.”

“I was family to you once.” He said, softly.

She avoided saying all the venomous things she would have very much liked to have said, for there were many, and put another step between them, grounding herself, “Finn, I appreciate you being here to pay your respects to my dad, but please don’t behave as though you’re the one who’s hurting the most right now, okay?”

“What, so I can’t feel grief too?”

Somehow, she maintained control, “You are well within your rights to grieve. Just, just please make sure it’s him you’re grieving for today. Not us.”

Finn always wore his heartbreak well. There was a time when his vulnerability would peel away every layer of her resolve. Now when she saw it, she felt pity at best. Spite at worst.

“I’m always going to grieve for us, princess.” He murmured, “But it’s not why I’m here.”

She bit back the urge to remind him she wasn’t a princess, and instead patted his shoulder lightly. She said nothing further to comfort him as he made her sorrow about himself once again.

“Where have you been?” Madi caught her wrist as she stepped into the hall, tugging her towards her and Abby, “If I have to watch another person ugly cry at me again, I’m going to smash a bottle over their head.”

“Oh, good.” Clarke took a breath and reached for a glass of sparkling liquid off a passing waiter’s tray, “This better be alcoholic.” She muttered.

Abby glanced subtly at her eldest daughter as she rounded off another conversation with another important person. She allowed herself a generous sip, overjoyed at the taste of wine that touched her tongue, before she was wrapped into a conversation with somebody-and-his-wife. She managed it well enough, showing nothing but respect and understanding for whatever was being said to her at the time.

A few conversations later, Madi tugged Clarke back to her side, “What’s happened? You were gone for ages.”

Between acknowledging condolences and well-wishes, Clarke muttered out of the corner of her lips, “Minor breakdown in store room. Recovered. Then saw Finn.”

“Oh, shit.” Madi closed her eyes for a moment before sneaking a glass of wine for herself, “Are you okay?”

Abby recalled her attention to another powerful figure in the industry and Clarke broke away from her sister to respond appropriately before returning to their conversation, “I could just really do without him today.”

“Today and every other day. Anyway, if you want me to, I’ll happily kick him in the balls.”

Clarke scoffed surreptitiously into her wine, “Good luck finding them. It’s a struggle.”

“I’ll give it a good go, don’t worry.” She promised, quietly.

“Thanks, but are _you_ okay?” Clarke asked, gently resting her palm against her sister’s shoulder.

Madi shrugged, “Are any of us okay?”

The youngest Griffin certainly made a valid point.

Abby finally disengaged from discussion and turned to both her daughters, handing Clarke another glass of something, “Have you spoken to the Jahas, yet?”

“Not yet.” She shook her head, “I haven’t really spoken to any of my friends since…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Her mother and sister already knew. Clarke had hardly given herself any time to breathe, let alone confide in those she was close to.

“Well, before you get caught in another conversation with somebody who likes to think we didn’t know that smoking cigars can cause cancer, go and find them.” She brushed down the black fabric on Clarke’s back, “Where have you been? Your dress is filthy.”

Clarke opened her mouth to think of something witty to say, but Abby was already ushering her away, “And, for goodness sake, make sure the two of you eat something.”

She opted for a “yes, mom” instead and led Madi away from Abby, who was at level-10-mother-mode, and approached Wells and his family. They were mostly scattered, Thelonious entertaining other directors as he was expected to do. Clarke knew he’d be feeling it, too. He and Marcus were Jake’s closest friends. The only ones blessed enough to know about his illness.

“Hey, Wells.” Clarke nudged his elbow, gingerly.

He turned, dark eyes lighting up. Without hesitating, he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. He didn’t say anything and Clarke didn’t need him to. After a moment, he released her, his face full of apology. She just shook her head, squeezing his hand lightly.

“Nice to see you again, Madi.” He held his hand out to the her and Madi accepted the formal greeting courteously, the both of them knowing how bizarre it was to put on such a front in public, “I mean, not that it’s nice to see you under these circumstances, but you, well, you know.”

“It’s good to see you too, Wells.” She let her hand fall back to her side as the three of them found themselves quickly wrapped up in the confines of social propriety. Quickly, the youngest Griffin daughter tired of the charades and tugged on Clarke’s arm, “Please, god, please tell me that we can go somewhere tonight and get drunk.”

“Oh, yes. I plan on getting very, very drunk. But not drunk enough that I can’t keep an eye on you.” She looked up at Wells once there was a break in conversation and the next group of people had sidled away, “Orion later?”

“Sure?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Sure.” She confirmed, “I need to finish my rounds. Fancy reserving a couple of booths?”

“Clarke, I can’t get my phone out now.” He looked at her, panicked.

She rolled her eyes, “Why, who are you going to offend? The family?” At his remorseful expression, Clarke rested a hand to his bicep, “I’m kidding. It’s okay. Just act like I’ve asked you to do something really important. Nobody will question it.”

With an air of disinclination, Wells finally agreed. The two sisters excused themselves to continue circling the room, directing their attentions quickly to those Clarke had neglected for the last few weeks. It was difficult to act in a certain way around those she knew. With strangers, pretending was easy. She could mask her symptoms of sorrow with appropriate expressions. Ones that her friends would see through immediately.

Fortunately, there was a group of them all awkwardly banded together which made life a little easier for her. She could deal with all of their sympathies at once. Murphy, Anya and her husband looked as if they were babysitting Octavia, her older brother Bellamy, Raven, and a couple of attractive young gentlemen. The moment Clarke and Madi approached, Octavia and Raven swooped into their personal spaces without contrition. Madi found herself quickly enveloped with her sister into a communal embrace. It couldn’t last for too long, or people would start to comment.

Clarke felt her insides loosen ever so slightly at the contact, but she forced herself to remain composed, “I can’t talk properly right now, but we’re going to the Orion tonight. Wells is booking a couple of tables. We can all have group therapy there. Everyone game?”

There was a resounding murmur of agreement and Clarke found herself heave a sigh of relief.

“You all look like you’re plotting something.” Abby’s voice rose from behind Clarke, “What is it?”

The group all offered Abby reflexively innocent smiles, quickly realised that it was her husband’s funeral, and were left with awkward grimaces on their faces instead.

“Irresponsible drinking.”

Abby nodded her head in acceptance, “I thought as much. You both deserve a night to unwind.”

“Are you coming?”

She shook her head, squeezing Clarke’s hand gently, “No. I could do with some alone time.”

Her daughters stood either side of her, pressing a kiss respectively to her cheeks, and she smiled. A real smile. Abby’s attention turned to Anya and she allowed the congratulatory comments that followed on her joint performance. The recognition was second-nature to her.

“I see you are only half of the duo.” Abby remarked.

Anya inclined her head, “Yes, my counterpart unfortunately had some unavoidable business to take care of.”

“That’s a shame. I would have liked to thank her in person.”

Clarke shifted uncomfortably as she thought back to her conversation with Lexa. She hadn’t mentioned any business, but then Clarke had barely given her the opportunity to talk about herself.

“And I know she would have appreciated it.”

Abby nodded, “Perhaps I will find a way to thank her later.”

“I mean, it’s her job though, right?” Clarke piped up before she could stop herself. Each member of the group turned to look at her. “I didn’t mean that in an ungrateful way. I just meant that she probably doesn’t expect a thank you.” She added, but she was halfway down her third wine, so her filter was minimal. If not non-existent.

“Well, actually, she did it as a favour.” Abby informed her, “She wouldn’t accept anything for it.”

Clarke expelled a short laugh, “Sounds about right.”

Anya’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly, but she chose not to comment.

“She sends her apologies.” Clarke recalled suddenly, “I forgot to say.” When there was a pull of baited silence, she quickly added, “I bumped into her, uh, at the cathedral.”

“So, you know her well, then?” Her mother asked, breaking the hush that fell on each head in the group.

Madi, picking up on the tone of the conversation, decided to contribute rather unhelpfully, “I’d hope so. She spent all day drawing her the other week.”

“I didn’t realise you were friends.” Abby seemed none the wiser. Or, if she gathered that the others were teasing Clarke about the violinist, she chose naivety over whatever uncomfortable truth they were insinuating.

“Really close friends, aren’t you?” Raven rested a hand on her friend’s elbow. 

Choosing to exit the conversation, the artist just offered a salty smile, “I’ll see you all tonight.”

The Griffins departed, to Clarke’s relief, but discussions of meeting up with the others had improved her spirits. Marginally, at least.

“Mom, do you have the violinist’s business card in your purse?” Clarke made sure to ask her when she was well out of earshot from the others. She recalled she’d left the card Lexa had given her in the back pocket of her jeans. Which had been through the wash at least 4 times since.

Abby nodded, producing the card shortly afterwards. She didn’t ask any questions as they made their way to the black limo waiting to take them back to the London house, although she imagined her mother was too distracted to think of anything aside from her deceased husband. The moment they were out of view from the public, Abby rested her head on Clarke’s shoulder as they embraced, “I’m really proud of you both for today. You’ve both done beautifully. Clarke, I know it’s stressful suddenly stepping into the limelight, especially in place of your father, but you’ve done him proud. Both of you.”

“I don’t believe a word you say.” Clarke joked, kissing the top of her head, “Are you sure you’ll be okay tonight?”

Abby nodded, “Yes. I’m sure. You two have fun. Please just be as sensible as you need to be.”

Clarke wasn’t sure how sensible she needed to be. Enough to make sure Madi didn’t get too intoxicated, she supposed. But, even without alcoholic influence, Clarke wasn’t sure she was sensible anyway. As if to prove a point, discounting the three wines she’d helped herself to, she pulled out her phone and decided to use it for unwise purposes.

_To: Lexa_

_[20:47] There’s a group of us meeting at the Orion tonight at around 10. I can’t promise good company, but I can promise good beer. See you there? ~Clarke_

She settled for it.

Once she’d hit send, she didn’t have a choice.


	9. Chapter 8 - Beer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've sort of come to a decision about uploads. I'm going to aim (aim being the key word) for Monday/Friday updates, as long as my shift patterns permit me to do so. It is possible I won't be able to stick with that at all times, but I will do all I can to make sure I'm as consistent as I can be. Hope you are all keeping well. 
> 
> Thanks again for your continued support. It really does boost morale to read your thoughts. 
> 
> Tumblr: the-lady-of-cythera
> 
> xox

In stark contrast to the hours that had already marked the passing of the day, a day which had felt like a year ago, the night possessed something of a warmth. Clarke felt it as she and Madi stepped into the familiarity of The Orion Arms. Their arrival, however, initially brought a reverent silence over those in attendance. Even the bar staff paused their duties. Immediately, Clarke felt the intimacy of those who had supported her from the side-lines from the very beginning. There was a fair crowd of them packing out the booths, all looking at the two sisters as they stood side-by-side in the entrance.

“So…” Clarke looked to Madi, filling the quiet, “Beer?”

A loud chorus of agreement vibrated the laminate flooring and Clarke dropped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. The crowd hushed once more as the youngest member of the party considered her options. Ideally, she probably would have preferred something a little fruitier. But, in effort to appease the expectant faces around her, she conceded with reluctance, “Okay. Beer.”

The cheer was thunderous. It was exactly what they needed. What Jake would have wanted. He had always been the soul of celebration. It was his confidence that attracted the party to him, rather than to whatever venue he was visiting.

Clarke headed to the bar and opened up a tab, Madi following closely behind her. She wasn’t shy, generally speaking. She didn’t possess quite the same social aptitude that Clarke had, but she was always keen to celebrate. She knew Madi was still feeling vulnerable from the effects of the funeral. Which was more than understandable.

“They’re playing Jake’s favourite funk albums tonight.” Murphy draped his side over the bar, propped up on one elbow as he landed beside the Griffin sisters. Clarke glanced him up and down. She could tell by his overfamiliarity that he had already consumed a fair number of pints.

“He did love funk. Hey, you been working out, Murph?” She asked, nodding to the way his white t-shirt clung snugly to his frame, “Out on the pull, or something?”

“You know my body is insatiable, Griffin.” He offered her his signature crooked smile, “But no. I’m a scoundrel, but not that much of a scoundrel. Saying that, I do have my fancy shirt over there though, just in case.”

“Just in case somebody needs to stuff it into your mouth to shut you up?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Wow, kinky.” He turned to Madi, “Now then, hobbit, let’s introduce everybody, shall we?”

Murphy led her towards the booths and pointed to himself, “Okay, you know me. Nobody else really matters.” He laughed, receiving an eagle-eyed glare from Anya, “Fine. And you know Anya too, I suppose.” He began to point out each face in the crowd, “Octavia,” already he had stumped himself as he came to the man sitting next to her, “male version of Octavia.”

“Bellamy.” He raised a hand helpfully, the light Irish accent matching that of his sister’s.

“That’s Raven, and yes, she is in fact a separate entity to Anya. Not just a growth. Although they do tend to blur into one the more they drink.” He came to Wells Jaha and then moved on, “Irrelevant–”

“–Wells.” Clarke interrupted, “You’ve met Wells, Mads.”

Murphy didn’t even stammer as he continued, disinterested in lingering too long on the latter, “That’s Niylah. Clarke likes to draw her naked.”

Niylah, the alternatively dressed woman with blonde dreadlocks, maybe a little older than Clarke, just shrugged nonchalantly and returned to her pint.

“Stoner-boy-number-one and stoner-boy-number-two–”

“–Jasper and Monty.” Clarke muttered, evidently less than delighted at Murphy’s introductions.

He pointed to two hefty men seated at the back of the table, both looking relatively unapproachable, “Those two males I’ve never seen before in my life, so they’re probably not important.” He waited for Clarke to correct him, but she didn’t seem to recognise them either.

“Lincoln and Nyko.” Anya caught Murphy’s eyes with another sharp gaze.

“Jesus, how many love interests do you need?” He scoffed.

Raven nudged Anya’s arm playfully, “Just me.”

“I’m still not over the fact that you’re married.” Octavia remarked, “She just turned up this afternoon with this guy and didn’t introduce him until I eventually asked who he was. She just went ‘yeah, this is my husband’ and that was it. No name. Nothing. We never found out his name because he speaks even less than she does.”

Anya gave no apologies.

Clarke caught herself glancing at the collection of warming smiles surrounding her, unable to justify a sense of surprise that the violinist had decided not to attend. She tried to ignore the slight discomfort in her stomach. It could have been a sensation caused from the after-effects of her father’s funeral. But it could have been caused by something entirely different. Disappointment. Clarke had rather hoped she could start smoothing out the rough ridges in their natural resentment towards the other. God knew they would need to sooner or later.

“Come on, Griffins.” Murphy directed them to a seat and dropped beside Clarke, leaning forwards to capture Madi’s attention, “So, have you decided what you’re doing when you start here?”

Madi shrugged, giving off the deceptive impression that she hadn’t made up her mind just yet, and responding in an equally casual manner, “I’m planning on focusing on my contemporary dance. I’ve applied to take up a degree in it. I’ll still do ballet, but it won’t be as much of a priority. I think I’ll continue with singing lessons and the harp, too.”

“Is that all?” Raven remarked from across the table, grinning over at the youngest Griffin.

“Madi’s superhuman.” Clarke nudged her sister’s arm, lightly, “She’ll end up getting roped into everything when she starts, and she’ll ace it all.”

“Already got a music tutor?” Anya asked, sitting comfortably beside Raven with her arms folded.

Madi shook her head, “I’m not sure who to go to.”

She nodded, wisely, “I can sort something out for you, no problem.”

“Thank you.”

Murphy waved a hand in dismissal, “Yes, yes. Music is great. Let’s talk more about dance. How come you don’t want to specialise in ballet?”

“Ballet culture, mostly.” She replied, simply, “It’s getting on my nerves at the moment.”

“Just at the moment? How come?” Clarke asked, angling to look at her sister.

Madi shrugged, “Reasons.”

“Bitchy girls and even bitchier guys?” Murphy asked, knowingly.

“Exactly.”

“Weirdly oppressive teachers?”

“You know everything.”

The discussions continued, eventually phasing into loosely related topics, following the bumpy train ride of mildly intoxicated conversationalists. Clarke finished her second pint, noting that Madi had barely even got halfway down her first.

“Oh, my god, Mads. This is painful.” She muttered, reaching over to grab the unfinished beer and necked it without further delay, “Alright. I’ll get you something fruity now. You tried.”

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Madi returned, eyeing the empty glass with distaste.

“That you’ve _attempted_ to do.” Clarke corrected. She walked with both Octavia and Raven towards the bar, the both of them looking to the blonde with masked concern.

“You doing okay, Griffin?” Raven asked, resting one arm on the bar surface.

She just shrugged in response, “I think so. Still new, you know?”

“And Madi?” Octavia automatically smoothed out a crease in the fabric covering Clarke’s shoulder, evidently trying hard not to smother her with apprehension.

“She hides her feelings more than I do. She’s always been strong, but I’ll be glad to keep a closer eye on her when she moves here.”

Madi had always held her cards close to her chest; something she’d picked up from Abby. Clarke worried that she would push away the grief, rather than let herself experience it. But it was something she would have to feel for herself. Clarke couldn’t carry the weight for her, as much as she wished she could. She moved to and from the booth with fresh pitchers of vibrant cocktails as the minutes blurred together in a timeless haze. Both Griffins seemed to be lagging behind the rest of the drinkers, somewhat. Madi was pacing herself sensibly, which Clarke was pleased about, but it also meant she couldn’t get more inebriated than she was already or Madi would become the responsible member of the party. That would absolutely not have been okay. Clarke had the buzz in the back of her skull, so she knew she lacked sobriety, but the weightlessness she was accustomed to feel when drinking was absent. Deciding it meant she probably needed another drink, Clarke headed over to the bar, weaving her way between the expanding crowds of swaying bodies. Just as she felt she could commend herself on her own agility for making it through without so much as a drink being spilled on her, she felt something of a different solidity to the floor beneath her shoe. Then, she found her body colliding with another.

Two hands reflexively reached out to take a hold of her waist, steadying her with ease. Clarke glanced up, lips parting as she met the steely gaze of the enigma before her. Her hands, although delicate to look at, were stronger than Clarke might have anticipated them to be. They held her firmly as she regained her balance. She was wearing her hair down, clothes dark against olive skin.

“You came.” Clarke breathed, only vaguely aware that she was still standing on the violinist’s foot.

“Yes,” Lexa murmured, “I did.”

“Are you okay?”

In cloaked surprise, a crease appeared on her forehead, “You’re asking me if _I’m_ okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”

Lexa studied her hard, eyes flickering briefly over her features before she allowed herself a soft response, “Yes. I’m okay, Clarke.”

Clarke wasn’t sure what to say after that. Her lips twitched as if she might have attempted a sentence, but no words offered themselves up as appropriate tributes.

Lexa seemed to recall her hands pressed to the artist’s waist and she carefully lowered her arms back to her side, “I apologise for knocking into you, by the way.”

“I must admit, that’s a new level of rude, even for you.”

Lexa gave an amused twitch of her eyebrow, the crease of her forehead smoothing out, “I have outdone myself.”

“Somehow.” There was a genuineness to the outline of her smile, one Clarke hadn’t planned for.

“Perhaps you might relinquish my foot now? Or do you still require me as a hostage?”

“Oh!” Clarke blinked and lifted her foot up, almost embarrassed. But not quite.

“And you call me rude.”

The blonde inclined her head, “Sorry. Pot, kettle. Maybe you’ll let me make it up to you?”

Lexa waited, tilting her head curiously to one side.

“Maybe, maybe you’ll finally let me buy you that drink?”

It seemed to cause a great deal more turmoil on Lexa’s expression than expected, but it lasted no more than a split second before her features levelled over once more, “Really, it’s okay. If anything, it should be the other way around.”

“Let me?”

“You’re persistent, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Clarke led her through the crowds towards the bar, “What are you having? Wait, let me guess.” She gave her a teasing once-over, one that lingered, “You’re a whiskey on the rocks kind of girl?”

Lexa caught Clarke’s eyes as they travelled back up to her face and held them in place, almost easily, “Generally, I’m not picky but I’m certainly not opposed to whiskey, no. Or ice, as it happens.”

“Need to keep yourself cold somehow, right?” She wondered immediately if she’d overstepped the mark. Maybe she was a little less restrained than she thought she was.

Lexa took the insult lightly and went with it, “Yes. Usually I have it with half a pint of pure lemon juice. That keeps me bitter, too.”

Clarke managed a mildly relieved laugh, finally tugging her gaze back to the menu, “I think I’m going for a cocktail. How about it?”

The violinist browsed the options before her and the flash of uncertainty returned once more, “They aren’t very cheap.”

Clarke considered prolonging the sarcasm, but reminded herself that this sort of thing mattered to Lexa. She’d made it clear from the very start of their interactions that she didn’t like to owe anybody anything. As such, she decided to change her tact, “Well, I’ve already opened the tab, so since you’re with the party now, it’s not really avoidable.”

This didn’t seem to sway Lexa in the direction Clarke had hoped. It seemed she didn’t like to view money through a flippant eye, either. A change of tact was required once again.

“What I’m trying to say, Lexa, is that I would like to get you a drink if you’ll let me. Would that be alright?”

This seemed to tip the scales at last, and she glanced up to Clarke, her eyes surprisingly wide, “Okay.” She selected a cocktail from the menu and waited for the artist to make her own order. As they waited, she turned towards Lexa once more.

“So, my mom told me you chose not to accept any payment for the performance today.”

She inclined her head, guarded.

“It was a gesture that didn’t go unappreciated or unnoticed.” Clarke continued, quietly.

“I didn’t want it to come across like a charity thing.” She paused, her fingers resting lightly on the wooden surface, “Or like a pity thing.”

“With all due respect, you don’t come across as the pitying type.”

Lexa seemed tickled by this and she arched an eyebrow, “No? What type do I come across as, then?”

Clarke studied her carefully, trying to absorb each small detail of her face. Lexa did not shy away from the analysis. “I’m still figuring you out.” The artist decided, pausing as the bartender presented their cocktails on two napkins, “Can I ask you a question?”

The likelihood was Clarke would ask the question regardless of her response, but she waited politely until she received a nod.

“Why did you hate me when you first met?”

Lexa pressed her fingertips gently against the glass, “I didn’t hate you, Clarke.”

“But you didn’t like me, either.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Clarke waited for Lexa’s justification, knowing that if she kept quiet for long enough, eventually she would get an answer.

“Fear.” It was a simple explanation. Despite the vulnerability of such an answer, there was nothing fragile in the way she delivered it.

“I scare you?” Clarke would have phrased it teasingly had she been talking to anybody else, but she wasn’t. She was talking to a musician handpicked by her deceased father, on the day of his own funeral. Lexa was the last person he chose to join his ranks. It wasn’t the time for mockery. Judging by the clarity of Lexa’s stare, she was much in the same mindset.

“Yes, to a degree. I don’t come from a privileged background, Clarke.” She looked, for a moment, as if she might have offered more depth to this statement, but instead chose to move past it, “The thought of integrating myself amongst a society I know nothing about was a frightening prospect. It still is, really.”

Clarke nodded, sipping thoughtfully at her drink.

“As the first person to speak to me, you received the brunt of all my prejudice. The fact that you behaved nothing like I would have expected you to made me even more wary. I know you were trying to help. At the time, it felt more as though you were mocking me. As though you knew I felt like I didn’t belong. That was a fault of mine. Not yours.”

“Well, I guess I _was_ taking the piss out of you a little.” Clarke sighed, chewing her lip, “But I didn’t mean it offensively.”

“I know you didn’t.” She acknowledged, softly.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Lexa’s lips parted, although no sound left them at first. Clarke seized the opportunity to read the subtle changes to her expression, hoping to grasp an idea what she might say before she said it. It came as no surprise to Clarke to learn she was way off the mark when Lexa finally spoke.

“I knew from the moment I saw you that, if I let you, you would be a distraction. A distraction I simply couldn’t afford.”

Neither did Clarke expect the surge of blood flowing to her cheeks at such calmly spoken words. Words with a variety of implications. Implications that Clarke couldn’t begin to determine. Lexa didn’t even look away to protect herself as she spoke them, didn’t even blink. Clarke had always favoured a direct approach, but Lexa had far surpassed even her highest expectations. Again. She became hyperaware of the proximity between their bodies in the heat of the crowds surrounding them. Her chest stuttered. It was the first time, in a long time, that Clarke had felt anything like it. Lexa seemed unconcerned with her response, and continued to watch her with a matter-of-fact stare, expression as stoic as ever.

“And now?” She murmured with a voice more unsteady than she would have preferred it to be, “Do you still feel the same way?”

“Well, look at the two of you managing to hold a civil conversation!”

Clarke felt the cord that tugged her closer to Lexa snap with the sound of Raven’s voice. She blinked and turned to receive her and Anya. The latter appeared to be quickly reading the atmosphere with something of an indecipherable omniscience. It could have been the flush of Clarke’s cheeks, or the startling stare of piercing green, but it was abundantly clear the two arrivals had interrupted something, something designed not to be broken by anybody except the two women cradling it carefully between them. Clarke was therefore forced to remind herself that she couldn’t just interpret words to mean something that they most likely didn’t. There was nothing about Lexa’s countenance that could have led Clarke to believe she meant anything beyond a platonic subtext, but she was still desperate to find out more. Yet, now, there wouldn’t be a moment in which Clarke could comfortably bring up the topic again. Anya nodded at her tutee, breaking the short-lived silence.

“I thought you weren’t going to show.”

Lexa swallowed a mouthful of her cocktail before replying, “I suppose you’re disappointed that I did.”

She smirked, “Devastated.”

Clarke knew Raven was dying to mercilessly tease the two of them about talking to each other without arguing, but intelligently held her tongue. Even somebody like Lexa would know better than to quarrel with someone on the day of their father’s funeral. Clarke lapsed into silence whilst Lexa easily engaged in a natural back-and-forth with Anya. Raven, who loved any form of intelligent wit, was more than willing to participate in such conversation, too.

“…did you know about Anya’s husband?”

Clarke tuned back into the conversation as Raven rested a light hand on Anya’s forearm. Ordinarily, she would encourage such interactions between the two, but she had long since suspected that both Anya and Raven had carried on their superficial flirtatious charade of their own volition, rather than simply to appease Clarke.

Lexa shrugged, “Anya informed me once, very briefly, that she has a husband. I believe you said something along the lines of being ‘loosely married’ in passing.”

“So, what’s the arrangement?” Raven prompted, leaning against the bar.

Clarke raised an eyebrow, “Why, are you thinking of making their duo a happy trio?”

“Maybe if Anya begged me to.”

Anya presented a cool smile in Raven’s direction, “I’ve never begged for anything in my life, Reyes, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“When did you marry?” Clarke asked, sipping at her cocktail.

“A while ago.”

“That’s barely a response.”

“I can keep silent if you like?”

Raven shook her head, “Absolutely not. Does he live with you?”

She shook her head, “Of course not. I don’t cohabit with people very well. Our relationship is better when we don’t know what the other is doing at least 80% of the time.”

“So, it’s an open thing?”

Anya raised an eyebrow at Raven, teasingly, “An open thing?” She repeated.

“You know…”

“Look, if you guys are going to fuck, can you just get to it already? This tension is killing me.” Clarke chastised.

“Now?” Raven turned her smirk towards the blonde, “If I knew you were in such a hurry to see me naked, Griffin, I would have stripped off when you first got here.”

“There’s a law against public indecency, I believe.” Anya remarked.

“Hear that, Reyes? Anya thinks you’re indecent.”

Raven laughed, “And she doesn’t know the half of it. So, do you have kids? Like, how would that work if you both live separately?”

Anya shrugged, “I don’t have kids.”

“You don’t want them?” Raven asked.

She just smiled, faintly, “I’ll stick to raising adults, I think.”

It was an odd arrangement, guaranteed. One that she would question had it involved anybody aside from Anya Crainn. Clarke had known her for many years and still didn’t think she really knew anything about her, aside from that she was nothing short of a musical genius. That was all she’d ever really cared to know. She respected Anya unwaveringly.

“So, this is where you escaped off to.”

Clarke felt her skin ice over with a sub-zero chill. She turned, her eyes falling on Finn Collins for the second time that day. There was some confusion amongst the other three members in the group. Raven looked at him with mild intrigue. Anya simply watched him unfeelingly and Lexa subjected him to a brief appraisal, but lost interest promptly, eyes flickering back to Clarke’s. For a moment, her eyebrows creased upon seeing the artist’s paling complexion.

“What,” Clarke cleared her throat, which was quickly losing moisture, “what are you doing here?”

He was drunk, beyond what Clarke was comfortable with. He offered her a crooked smile, “Came to join the party. Overheard some of your buddies at the Wake saying they were meeting you here. Can we talk?”

It was the last thing she needed. She didn’t need a scene in that moment. Words dried up along with her mouth. She couldn’t think of anything to break the sheet of discomfort. She simply shook her head, mute.

“So, are you an artist, too?” Raven asked, awkwardly trying to break the tension settling between both Clarke and Finn.

He glanced at her, briefly, “Nah.”

It should have been obvious from his Southern twang that he had some other personal connection with Clarke, but nobody knew quite how to broach the subject.

Anya smoothly stepped forwards, extending a hand towards him, “We haven’t met.” She said, coolly.

“Finn.” He distractedly shook her hand, his wrist weaker than he would have wanted it to be, “You?”

“Finn.” Anya’s eyes glittered as the penny dropped. She must have heard the name mentioned countless times from Abby and Jake, back when the two had been dating, “I see.”

The manner of her speaking did give Finn reason to doubletake, and he returned Anya’s stare, suddenly trying to place her, “Don’t tell me. You’re another ex, too.”

He’d intended it as a joke, but it was poorly timed, poorly delivered, and poorly humoured.

Anya looked as if she was considering going along with it, but Murphy quickly intervened after sensing Clarke’s absence from the booth, “Griffin!” He squeezed his way between her and the young man, “I wondered where you’d got to.”

With his back turned to Finn, he wrapped an arm around Clarke’s shoulders, pulling her into his side, “More cocktails and you didn’t tell me?”

Clarke wanted to take control of the situation once more, but somehow, Finn had left her in a stupor. Again.

“We are both currently trying something called the Blueberry Smash, I believe.” Lexa easily raised her tumbler towards Murphy, “You ought to try some. It’s very potent.”

He took the glass with his free hand, taking a light sip, “Oh, good lord. So it is. What’s next on the agenda, then?”

Clarke wasn’t sure if she was grateful that Murphy had blocked Finn completely from sight, or whether it made her more anxious that she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t that she thought he would do something risky, as such. Finn wasn’t a bad person, but he lacked a certain level of control after a drink. Not that he had ever done anything to purposely harm Clarke when drunk. Not physically, at least.

“What would you like next?” Lexa turned to Clarke, her voice soft, but audible above the ringing in her ears. There was an undertone to her words, one that prompted Clarke to consider an escape route if she needed one, “Or did you say you were going to use the bathroom first?”

She took it.

“Bathroom first.” She agreed, quietly.

“I can get you a drink while you’re gone, if you like?” Finn offered, stepping around Murphy’s body so Clarke was in his line of visibility once more.

“No.” She managed to squeeze past the huddle and walk blindly towards the bathroom. For a moment, she leaned against the counter, taking steadying breaths. She couldn’t acknowledge why this was so difficult. It would have been impossible to think about. The creeping panic attack set in her stomach and she tried to focus on her breathing, fingers tightening around the sink. It wasn’t Finn that she feared. Just the memories. How he had broken her heart once, and how her broken heart had cost her everything. The darkness, the one she had grown accustomed to, began to surface in the corners of her vision. The worst part about it was that she had caused a scene in front of her friends and they would all be speculating internally. Murphy knew a great deal more about her past than any of the others there. Even more than Madi did. Madi knew the basics, but that was all. She knew nobody would want to get into a cliché fight at a funeral, but she also knew that there were people who would be willing to deal with Finn in such a manner if he remained there.

“Clarke?”

She glanced up, hardly expecting Lexa to be the person to have followed her to the toilets.

“I’m not here under the assumption that I can give you any kind of emotional support or helpful advice.” She began, “Raven told me to come and make sure you were okay. Her and Anya are currently patching up John’s knuckles.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Clarke muttered, her eyes closing tentatively, “Why can’t he ever just ask somebody to leave, _politely_?”

Lexa remained silent.

“You’ll never want to come out with me again after this.”

She took a cautious step forward, leaning her back against the counter beside Clarke, “I wasn’t under the impression you would invite me anywhere again, so I suppose I’ve achieved something at least.”

Clarke tapped her fingertips lightly against the porcelain under her palms, “I’m okay, you know. You don’t need to babysit me, or anything.”

Lexa inclined her head, something passing over her features as though she was piecing something together, “I can go if you like. As I say, I was under instructions from Raven.”

Clarke just looked at her, despondently, “Why is it always _you_ who finds me when I’m having some sort of emotional crisis?”

“Maybe that’s just the effect I have on you.” Lexa shrugged, evenly.

“Usually, I would agree, but,” She paused, “well, never mind.”

The violinist looked at Clarke, almost as though she was staring straight through her skull.

“It’s just that, well, you’ve surprised me today. A lot.”

“In what way?” Lexa asked.

Clarke shook her head, “It doesn’t matter. I guess, I don’t know, I know I can be a real bitch when I’m like this, especially to somebody like you. Well, I mean, there’s nobody like you, really, but I would be inclined to take out my anger on someone who I have a mutual dislike with. Not that I still dislike you, or anything. For god’s sake, words are not my forte today. What I’m trying to say is that you’ve helped me today, more than once. In fact, you’ve done a lot for me and for my family, and I tend to get prickly about that kind of shit and you just sort of, I don’t know, look past it.” She wanted to fall into the sink bowl and get washed away down the plug hole. Forever. Desperate to stop herself from saying any more, Clarke groaned and tilted her head back, “God, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about any of this.”

“I noticed something.” Lexa said, quietly, “Perhaps it would be overstepping the boundary to say.”

“Fuck it.” Clarke shrugged, “Say it. I’ve overstepped plenty of boundaries in front of you, so…”

“You do this thing.” She observed, “I think it’s because you are so used to being the person to help or support everybody around you, but you have a tendency to push those away when you need help the most. Or, maybe it’s just me you like to push away, for obvious reasons.”

“People who look after others tend to be difficult to look after themselves.” She sighed, “Although, recently, I don’t think I’ve been looking after people very well, at all. I guess I feel guilty for being so caught up in my own shit over the last few weeks.”

Lexa pushed her lips tightly together for a moment before releasing the pressure slowly, “Clarke, at times, we all need a break from looking after others so we can look after ourselves. At some point in our lives, we all need help.”

“I know.” She muttered, grimacing, “You know, it’s just irritating to me that you’re the person who has helped me the most today.”

“Yes, that is irritating. I apologise for that.” Lexa responded, not without a trace of amusement. Just the right amount.

Clarke laughed, quietly. She could feel Lexa looking at her, and she could feel that thing happening to her chest for the second time that evening. She pushed it away internally and exhaled, “I presume Finn has gone.”

“I believe so.”

“You know, it’s funny hearing you give out that advice. As much as _you_ want to do this whole thing on your own, don’t you think that maybe you will need help too, one day?”

Lexa pulled a breath inward, thoughts passing quickly through her head as she formulated some kind of reply, “Maybe.”

It was the best she could come up with although it evidently didn’t satisfy Clarke enough.

“Maybe.” She reaffirmed, “You said something along those lines when we met, but I imagine I’ve probably missed my chance now to take you up on your offer, haven’t I?”

“Have you?” The feeling returned again, so quickly that it made Clarke’s heart trip.

Lexa pressed her lips together softly, eyes settling on the deep blue before her. There was a stretch of silence, although it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. The door opened and Octavia wandered in with Madi, the two of them looking relieved to see Clarke fully intact.

“You okay?” Madi asked as Octavia moved to wrap an arm around Clarke’s waist. Instantly, it snapped again.

“Yeah.” She shrugged in response, leaning lightly into Octavia’s side, although her eyes remained focused, “I think I’m probably ready to start making tracks, though.”

“Probably wise.” She agreed, “We can all walk out together. Always safer in a pack.”

“I prefer the term ‘pod’.” Clarke returned.

“Yes, we can put you in the middle of our pod like whales do with their babies.”

“Another great collective noun for whales is a ‘plump’, but using that would just make me feel fat.”

Madi creased her brow, “Weird, but okay. Sure, let’s do that.”

“Trust me, kid, you’ll be as weird as us one day. Only a matter of time.” Clarke grinned, pushing back from the sink. She briefly turned to Lexa, brushing her fingers briefly over the back of her hand, “Thank you.”

She didn’t expand on her gratitude or the reasons why she was expressing it. She assumed Lexa knew already. She did, however, speak the words with a deep sincerity. The sort that couldn’t be ignored or bypassed. The sort that made Clarke’s heart pound heavy as she spoke them, and unknowingly, the sort that made the violinist’s skin burn.

Upon exiting the bathroom, Clarke found Murphy mouthing off to himself, furiously.

“I leave you alone for two minutes.” She muttered, grabbing his hand to look at the swelling of his knuckles, “Was it really necessary?”

He held her gaze for a prolonged moment, stopping his string of curses to speak instead, “Yes, Griffin. It was necessary.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” He rolled his eyes at the way Clarke’s expression creased, “Because he’s a prick and so am I.”

She imagined it was all the explanation he would be giving her that evening, so she simply exhaled, “Alright. I’m not going to thank you, you know.”

“I know.” He nodded, glancing briefly over to Lexa as she stood beside an apathetic looking Anya, “I hope you haven’t given her a hard time tonight.”

“Who? Lexa?” She followed Murphy’s line of sight and shrugged, “Why?”

“Because she’s a lot nicer than you give her credit for.”

“I know.” Clarke muttered, feeling rather like a child on the receiving end of punishment.

“And you’re a lot nicer than you want her to think you are, too.”

She wasn’t sure she agreed with him on his latter statement and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “Stop being all mature. It’s not right.”

Upon his silence, Clarke met his stare and her eyebrows lifted.

“What? Why do you care, anyway?”

“Because,” He draped an arm around her shoulders, “I saw how you looked at her tonight.”

“Yeah? And how was that?”

He pressed a fond kiss to the top of her head as they headed towards the door, “The same way you look at a particularly exceptional piece of artwork and, lord above, we both know she is a goddamn work of art.”

“Stop gushing. It’s making me uncomfortable.” Clarke grumbled, “Just so you know, I still hate her.”

Murphy laughed as the night air hit their lungs, “No, you don’t. You don’t have it in you to hate.”

“And I hate you.”

He grinned, “Love you, too.”

Madi joined the other side of Murphy and he rested his free arm around her shoulders, directing each of them through the complex.

“I needed tonight.” Madi stated, glancing around Murphy to catch her sister’s eye, “Thanks for bringing me.”

Clarke sent her a wink, “It’s the first of many. Can’t wait to have you with us for good. I need someone to keep me sane.”

“I think we’re beyond that.”

And it was the truth.


	10. Chapter 9 - Warpaint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised.
> 
> Your comments have given me sanity.
> 
> xox

It was unexpected, largely so, when Lexa received her first sum. Initially, she imagined there to be some kind of error. Surely, there had to be. She couldn’t have made that amount of money just through one performance at The Proms. The thought of it made her feel slightly sick. Before she could entertain the possibilities of how she could spend her new income, she piled all the funds into her savings account and forced herself not to look at it again. Not until she truly had to, at least. She’d found herself, not only richer, but suddenly busier than she’d ever anticipated herself to be over the course of the next month. She had gained a great deal of recognition from various organisations, event planners and, to her dismay, other competitive musicians. At times, it felt uncomfortable to accept such business propositions, almost as if she was watching herself from the side-lines become somebody she wasn’t supposed to be. Even when she could lose herself completely in her music, blocking out the audiences and the eagle-eyed stares of critiques, something prodded at the back of her mind. Something uncomfortable. Was it fair for her to be profiting from the death of Jake Griffin? How much more could she possibly owe him? Morally, she struggled.

Naturally, her thoughts fell to his daughter and the message she was staring at on her phone screen. She leaned her back into the curve of the practice room’s grand piano, taking a grounding breath. It was the first she’d heard of Clarke since the funeral. She had been reluctant to reach out first to remind her that her offer still stood if she wanted her involvement in Murphy’s exhibition. Lexa expected that Clarke’s priorities could have changed as she adjusted to the new role she held in society. She didn’t wish to remind her of potentially unimportant responsibilities when her shoulders were so burdened already. Yet, as Lexa’s eyes scanned the message, she found a sense of inexplicable relief settle in her stomach. It was inexplicable only because Lexa naturally refused to explore any uncomfortable explanations.

_From: Clarke_

_[20:28] Any availability this week?_

_To: Clarke_

_[20:44] Wednesday afternoon._

_From: Clarke_

_[20:45] All afternoon?_

Lexa hesitated, knowing she would have to sacrifice part of her routine to keep the entire afternoon free. She rested her teeth on her lower lip and responded without further debate.

_To: Clarke_

_[20:48] If you like._

_From: Clarke_

_[20:50] Considering Murphy will use my innards as his next display if I don’t get started on this project soon, yes. Yes, I would like._

_To: Clarke_

_[20:50] Exhilarating to know I hold the fate of your innards in the palms of my hands._

_From: Clarke_

_[20:51] If that’s the case, I’d highly recommend washing your hands._

Lexa couldn’t prevent the begrudging smirk that pulled at her lips as she slid her phone back into her pocket. She decided she could hold off on continuing the strangely comfortable back-and-forth between her and Clarke until after her practice. Anya was busy reading through Lexa’s latest composition, her legs crossed on the piano stool.

“Stop flirting.”

Lexa glanced up at the instruction, guiltily, “What?”

Anya didn’t even meet her gaze as she approached the final bars of the manuscript, “I said: stop flirting.”

“With…?”

Anya pointed to the music, finally looking up, “I can hear it in my head. You’re flirting with your listeners. You need to give them something, something a little deeper.”

Lexa sighed, picking up her violin and toying with the melody of the final page as Anya listened. She nodded slowly, acknowledging the change in key signature with approval, “Better, but I still need more.”

She tried again, altering the melody once more. Anya sighed and checked her watch, “Again, better, but your head’s gone somewhere else.”

Lexa lowered her violin, “I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget about that meeting tomorrow.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“I know. I’m just saying don’t forget.”

“I won’t.” Lexa refrained from rolling her eyes. Anya had been particularly harsh on her over the last few days and she knew why. Aside from the expected grief that came with losing Jake, Anya was determined to beat Lexa into better shape. She reminded her that she was the last person Jake had chosen before he died, as if Lexa hadn’t already been aware of such a fact, and it was therefore vital that she lived up to his hopes and expectations. It was a lot of pressure and Lexa had felt the weight of it all, but she hadn’t buckled. She refused to.

“You know why I’m hard on you,” Anya repeated for the third time that week, and it was only Monday, “and I stand by my reasons why. You are built for this.”

At this point, Lexa knew just to nod her head and avoid saying anything controversial.

“Okay, I have to go.” Anya checked her watch, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Providing I don’t forget.” Lexa muttered under her breath.

She hadn’t expected a response, but was unsurprised when Anya’s eyes glittered, “If you do, I’ll give you a beating your arse will never forget.”

Lexa accepted this as truth and kept quiet after that, only murmuring a quick goodbye as they parted ways.

The couple of days that followed were just as busy as Lexa had expected them to be based on the busyness of the previous month, if not more so. As she picked her way through the corridors of the Arthouse, her body began to crave the afternoon that waited for her. An afternoon of sitting in quiet. An afternoon of honest interaction. An afternoon of appreciating someone else’s creativity. Granted, her and Clarke remained to be in a peculiar position with one another, Clarke seeming to backpedal and race ahead frequently enough to keep Lexa guessing as to what she might say or do next. Although that, in itself, was something she found refreshing. Clarke allowed herself to feel and to express. Lexa often kept her thoughts to herself until she had analysed every implication and every consequence that could occur before she shared them. It was safer, but it probably wasn’t as liberating.

The artist was waiting for her outside John Murphy’s workshop, leaning against the wall, one foot propped against it. She was tapping away at her phone, thumbs efficient if not a little furious. Her hair was pulled up out of her face into a loose blonde bun, an oversized grey t-shirt hanging over her torso. The paint-mottled fabric was something Lexa had come to expect. She waited for Clarke to finally look up, an expression of disconcerted realisation passing over blue eyes as their gazes met, her hand almost letting go of the device she held, “Good god, Woods.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Lexa said, by way of apology.

Clarke took a second to settle and then she pushed back from the wall, attention returning to her phone screen, “Just give me a second.”

Lexa gave her more than that.

“In an ideal world, I’d ignore all forms of telecommunication.” Clarke continued, eventually sliding the phone back into her pocket, starting to walk away in the other direction, “Come on.”

In mild confusion, Lexa followed the artist away from the workshop, “Where are we going?”

“This was just a meeting point so you didn’t get lost. I have a space of my own. I work better in there.” She led her model through a set of brown doors and up a wooden staircase towards her desired destination. Unlocking a door and pushing it open to reveal the room inside, Clarke jerked her head, “Here we are. It’s not quite as large as Murphy’s workshop, but I’ve always said he’s an over-compensator.”

Lexa acknowledged this with a tilt of her lips, standing in the doorway to get a rounded view of the interior. She’d expected the layout to be much the same as his, but found it wasn’t at all. There were large linen sheets draped over the floor, but that was the main similarity aside from the art tools. She waited patiently as Clarke set things up. She navigated the space around her with ease, knowing where every object was, despite the ostensibly chaotic appearance of the layout. To pass the time, Lexa examined each area, pale eyes sliding from one place to the next.

Everything had been organised into categories. Everything had its own special place. The wooden sculptures of varying sizes were all allocated to one space, the clay creations to another; including the infamous Wells Jaha statue. A few mismatching mirrors hung on the walls, giving the illusion that the room was far bigger than it was. She had a small comfort space with a couple of beanbags, a loveseat, a miniature fridge, and a tea trolley situated next to a deep sink. Lexa found herself rather taken with the china teapot and matching cups. Ultimately, the room was warmer than Murphy’s, both physically and visually. Clarke kicked a couple of heaters into life as she walked by them. The back wall was spray painted with sunset blends, the colours just visible behind the collection of used canvases that began at the skirting board and climbed all the way to the ceiling. The one thing Lexa wasn’t too sure about was the varying sizes of mannequins all congregated together in the furthest corner of the room. Some had graffiti on them and some were situated inappropriately, frozen in explicit positions. Then again, Lexa thought, perhaps they were intended to be in such proximities. Clarke probably dabbled in all sorts of styles of art.

“I’d say excuse the mess, but it’s really quite inexcusable.” Clarke sighed, and as if reading Lexa’s thoughts, pointed to the mannequins, “And, just so you know, that is all Octavia and Raven’s doing.”

“I wasn’t judging.”

“No?” Clarke arched an eyebrow, “I would be. The positions are terribly uninventive.”

Lexa caught her teasing undertone and found herself slipping easily into one of her own, “Well, I did expect at least one to be upside down.”

“And spread eagle? That’s the stipulation I have for all my life-drawing models.” Clarke smirked, heading over to separate the human shaped figures, “Alright, alright, break it up, folks.”

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence once more as Clarke proceeded to organise her workshop. Lexa continued her examination, stepping towards the wooden sculptures, drawn to one in particular. It was small and simple, carved from pale maple wood and polished with matte-finish varnish. As a violinist, Lexa had worked with wood from time to time when hand-picking the qualities of her instruments, so she knew vaguely what properties she was looking at. The sculpture itself portrayed a woman in kneeling position, hair falling in front of a featureless face. Her arms seemed to wrap around something resembling a small body, an infant, maybe. Despite the limited detail to the carving, the position of the woman alone, of her hunched back, her rounded shoulders, spoke of nothing except sorrow. A spirit broken. She couldn’t begin to put a story to the sculpture, although she felt it deeply when she viewed it. Perhaps she was prompted to think of her mother, of her own childhood. There were other carvings she liked, some of people, some of animals, others of objects. She glanced at them all and then to Clarke, wondering how it was possible for her to create such powerful imagery from something as simple as a lump of wood. Her eyes instinctively fell to Clarke’s hands, recalling their precision as she had sketched her some weeks ago.

“Thought you didn’t think much to art.”

Clarke switched on the kettle once she had set up the room to match her preferences, indicating for Lexa to go and sit on the beanbag she’d left in the centre of the space. Lexa broke away from the sculptures, and from Clarke, doing as directed, “I didn’t, but not all art is art, is it?”

Clarke laughed, a pleasant sound, and handed Lexa a mug of tea, seeming to recall exactly how she took it, “Spoken like a true critique.”

Lexa allowed the heat of the mug to warm her hands before taking a small sip, watching the artist as she sat cross-legged on the floor, opening up a A3 sized folder.

“I’ve been doing some research into historical ideas of power. I thought at first that I’d try and do something with modern portrayals of power. Stick you in a business pant suit or something dreadful like that. I mean, not that I think _you_ would look dreadful in a business pant suit. On the contrary, well, you know.” She shook her head, quickly pushing on, “Anyway, eventually once I’d sorted my shit out, I came across these.”

Clarke presented images showing a variety of cultures and tribes, people painted or inked decoratively with facial and body art; Vikings, Native Americans, Celts, amongst others.

“So, I got quite into looking at different styles of warpaint.” As much as she might have tried to hide it, Clarke gradually began to gesticulate animatedly, becoming more and more invested in describing her concepts, “I thought I could maybe make you out of clay and…” She pointed to a sketch of Lexa’s outline she’d drawn in grey, one Lexa hadn’t seen before, and pointed to the darkened face paint and body art she’d added to it, “I want the war paint to be the only source of colour. I want it to be the main focus. In a way, we all wear warpaint. Whether it’s makeup or a more figurative mask, whatever, we all psychologically prepare ourselves for some sort of battle most days, right?”

Lexa just nodded, her eyes moving between Clarke’s expression and the artwork she displayed from the portfolio, “Right.”

“So, something like this.” She pointed to the various warpaint ideas she had captured, “What do you think?” Clarke slowly drew her lower lip beneath her teeth, meeting Lexa’s gaze in quiet anticipation.

“I think, I think that you’re an artist with exceptional talent, seeking the opinion of somebody who knows very little.”

Lexa hadn’t registered the light of hope in Clarke’s eyes until it began to fade, her expression relaxing back to its natural state, “I don’t know.” She sighed, “It’s probably a stupid idea.”

The violinist’s eyes flashed both suddenly and sharply to hers, “No, Clarke, it isn’t. That wasn’t my way of pulling down your ideas. That was my way of saying your creativity far surpasses mine and, whatever you decide, you will deliver it exceptionally.”

Some of the light returned to her eyes, subtle but visible, “My word,” she quirked an eyebrow, “did you just compliment me?”

“Yes.” Lexa returned, choosing to ignore Clarke’s mockery, “But if you’re interested in my opinion, I like that one,” She pointed to an image of dark facial paint concealing the skin around the subject’s eyes and cheeks, “and the Nordic looking cogwheel.”

“Well,” Clarke stood up, filing away the photographs and sheets of paper back into the folder, “in that case, you shall have both. Things are likely to get very messy, more so for me, but I feel I should give you the heads up just in case. You’re okay with that, right?”

“I’m okay with that.” Her eyes fell to Clarke as she picked up a tape-measure from one of the workbenches, thoughtfully chewing her lip as a force of habit. A habit Lexa was quickly becoming accustomed to.

“So, I’m going to need to take your measurements.” She walked towards her model, glancing her up and down in preparation, “Is that alright?”

Lexa nodded.

“Good. Stand up.” Clarke began to examine Lexa as she rose to her feet, pulling very lightly at the material of her clothing, “Can we lose some of these clothes?”

Had Clarke not been currently sizing Lexa up with a business-like stare, she might have expressed an appropriate level of surprise at being asked to strip, so out of the blue. After taking a second to get her head in the same place as Clarke’s, she responded evenly, “How many do you want me to lose?”

“Anything that isn’t skin-tight. So long as I can see your proportions and get an accurate measurement of them all, it doesn’t really matter.”

Lexa had never been self-conscious. She was confident in her own skin and always had been. For the first time, however, she felt uncertainty wash over her bones. Maybe it was the thought of somebody examining her in such close proximity, recording her every curve. Or maybe it was the thought of Clarke stepping into her space again. Lexa eased out of her coat, and then her long jumper, folding them and dropping both to the floor. Underneath, she was wearing a slim black tee. She wondered for a moment whether she would have to lose that too, but Clarke seemed to register the debate on her features and smiled in smooth reassurance, “It’s okay, the material is thin.”

Lexa crouched down to unfasten her Docs and place them to one side next to her jumper and coat. She stood before Clarke, subjecting herself entirely to her control.

“Okay, I’m going to need to be quite thorough, so I’ll get it all done as quickly as possible. Ready?”

With Lexa’s consenting nod, Clarke moved forwards, maintaining her professionalism as she wrapped the yellow ribbon around her waist. She was standing close, so close that Lexa could smell her shampoo. Clarke’s natural scent that accompanied her hair invited the tension in her stomach to ease a little. It was warm and settling. She tugged the pen from behind her ear and recorded each measurement down on the back of her hand, “I’ve fallen lucky with you. I’m used to fidgeters, but you,” she stepped around Lexa to stand behind her, breath fanning softly over her neck, “you hardly move, at all.”

Lexa could hear Clarke placing the pen between her teeth as she wrapped the tape around her chest. She could hear her own heartbeat. Clarke’s fingertips pressed lightly to her spine as she lined it up. She released it promptly, efficiently. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she didn’t let her hands linger long when she touched her. Not that Lexa expected her to, but there was something in the way Clarke brushed by her that left her mouth dry. Prolonged contact would have only made things more difficult to manage.

“Okay, I just need your legs now. Almost done.” She stood before the violinist again, studying her carefully and placing the pen back between her teeth before she crouched to the floor. She wrapped the tape around her ankles, her calves, and then her knees. Lexa hadn’t been quite so aware of the silence up until the point that Clarke was sliding the ribbon around her thigh. Without sound to distract her senses, she could feel the exact moment Clarke’s hand grazed over her muscle as the tape tightened around it. She hardly realised she’d stopped breathing until Clarke stood up once more, breaking all physical contact completely. For a moment, the blonde faced away from the model, moving to copy down the measurements she’d scrawled on the back of her hand onto a piece of paper instead. When she finished, Clarke paused over the paper for a few seconds, Lexa thinking very little of it until she turned back to face her.

“Thank you for that.” Despite the clinical edge to her mannerisms, Lexa could have sworn Clarke’s voice was a touch lower than usual. She could have sworn there was more pinch to her cheeks than had been there before. Clarke cleared her throat, voice rectifying itself as she spoke again, “If only all of my models were as well behaved as you.”

Lexa swallowed.

Clarke attempted a smile, but it came across more like a smirk.

She then dragged the workbench to rest between her and Lexa, gesturing for her to resume her seat, “You can sit for now.”

Lexa complied.

“You have regular models, then?” She asked, once she decided she could speak without giving anything of her sandpapery tone away.

“Some, yes.” Clarke set about creating the shape of Lexa’s head out of the wet clay before her, “Remember me telling you before about all the narcissistic people I know? A lot of them come to me frequently so I can recreate images of them. You know, paintings or sculptures of themselves for their large mansions. That sort of thing.”

Lexa listened.

“Musicians, unsurprisingly enough, book themselves in quite regularly. Usually for advertising purposes.”

“You say that with an air of bitterness.”

Clarke shrugged, “I have an avid distaste towards the mainstream music industry and its perpetually encouraged self-obsession.”

Lexa knew this already. She remembered the artist telling her before.

“And the musicians?” She asked, “Do you have an avid distaste towards them, too?”

Clarke caught Lexa’s stare with something of mischief in her eye, “Mostly just the string players.”

She acknowledged the dig with a subtle smile, choosing to keep quiet lest she accidentally cause a war.

“I also have my own preferred models, like Murphy does. Depending on what I’m creating. Usually, I like to have the person right in front of me, rather than working from a photograph or just from my head. That way, I can properly capture the person. You know, layer their expressions and stuff.”

“And sculpting, that’s your favourite style of art?”

“I’m happiest when I’ve got a lump of something in my hands I can gouge at.” As if to prove her point, Clarke pushed her thumbs into the clay where Lexa’s eyes would end up.

“Sounds dreadfully violent.”

She laughed, eyes flickering towards her, “We all have a dark side. Actually, talking of which, I’d like your perspective. This Lexa we’re creating, I want you to give her a character profile. What’s behind the warpaint? Something light, or something dark?”

“Both.” Lexa decided, “But that isn’t what matters.”

“No?” Clarke angled her head to one side, working her fingers into the smooth surface of rounding clay, “What does matter?”

“She’s going into battle. Light and dark is inconsequential. All that matters to her is fighting for and protecting her people.”

Clarke was listening, intently, “So, morals aside, keeping her people safe is the priority, regardless of the consequences?”

Lexa kept her facial features impressively still, despite the conversation she was having with Clarke, “You don’t agree?”

“She’s your character.” Clarke shrugged, “She’s going to be a fierce warrior, a leader even, but I don’t think she would be without a conscience. She feels the weight of the light and the dark equally.”

Lexa seemed to ponder this, seriously, “Then, if she is a leader, it is her responsibility to feel it, to shoulder the burden so that her people don’t have to.”

“Damn.” Clarke murmured, eyes grazing over Lexa’s face studiously, “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Led an army into battle?” She wanted to laugh, but kept her face straight, “Once or twice.”

“You must be a natural born leader.”

“I’m not sure I would ever have anybody to lead.” Lexa mused.

“Maybe one day you’ll conduct an unruly teenage orchestra.”

There was a spark of amusement behind her unblinking stare as she considered this, “I’ll pass. I’d take the ancient tribe of bloodthirsty warriors instead of a group of over-talented teenagers.”

“Actually,” Clarke paused, “I know your character specifically is a leader.”

Lexa waited for further explanation.

“Power isn’t always a depiction of ‘who is in charge’. It isn’t always necessarily about controlling people. I’m not creating a leader out of you for the sake of demonstrating that sort of cliché power. The truth is, you were a leader long before I got my hands on you.”

The violinist felt her throat burn. This time, it wasn’t out of choice the reason why she didn’t speak.

“This specific character is based on you, right? Murphy wanted me to use you for the exhibition because there is something powerful about you and he’s right.” She didn’t look at the violinist, not straightaway, “Your, uh, your performance at The Proms. I think about it. A lot, actually.” She hesitated, fingers sliding over the wet clay before she continued, “I think about the way you stood on stage and the way the crowd submitted to you. The way they waited for you to dictate how they should feel, and then they felt it.”

When Clarke was finally ready to meet the gaze of her model, Lexa held it there firmly, despite the way her stomach muscles clenched. Clarke had spoken so calmly, as though she was delivering nothing but fact, but Lexa could see there was a quiet flame burning behind her stare.

“Did you feel it?” She asked, unblinking.

“Yeah.” Clarke chewed lightly on her lower lip, “I did. Probably more so than anyone else there, in fact.”

“How so?”

“The piece you read at the start? That was about me.” She murmured, quietly, “My father and I got into a lot of arguments over music. The composition itself is unfinished because he wanted me to compose the ending, and I refused to. It got to him pretty bad.”

“Why did you refuse?”

“Because I was angry at him for spending more time composing than he did with his family. So, I suppose I refused as a punishment. We laughed about it eventually and I’d tell him it wouldn’t have been as successful if it wasn’t for my stubbornness.” She shrugged it off but Lexa got the impression that the reason behind her refusal had never really dissipated. She imagined Jake knew that too. Clarke didn’t hide herself away.

There was a silence between them as Clarke continued to work, eyes flickering between Lexa’s over the top of the workbench and back down to her creation. It wasn’t uncomfortable, perhaps for the first time. Lexa thought about what the artist had said, struck with the sharp spear of realisation. Of course, it had been about Clarke. Such a profound piece could not be composed for just anybody.

With no windows in the workshop, it was almost impossible to measure time as it passed. Clarke had been so engrossed in her work that it took the clatter of her wooden shaper hitting the floor to realign herself with the reality around her.

“God, I’m sorry, you’ll be needing a break.” She lay a damp cloth over the clay and took a step back, arching her back so her spine crackled, “Are you on any time constraints this afternoon?”

Lexa shook her head, knowing she’d cancelled whatever plans she’d had previously to keep the rest of the day free for Clarke’s project.

“Good. Okay.” Clarke nodded, “Get up. Have a walk around and I’ll make tea. If you need the bathroom, it’s just down the corridor to the left. Are you hungry?”

Lexa paused, considering the question, but not quite as much as the consideration she gave to what Clarke’s solution would be if she was hungry. It seemed Clarke didn’t feel like waiting around for a response and picked up her phone, “Here’s an easy one for ya. Do you like pizza?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, “Any preferences? Allergies?”

Lexa stood up, feeling the blood return to her limbs and flexing her fingers, “I don’t do anchovies.”

“And I don’t do mushrooms.”

Once they had agreed on a suitable pizza to satisfy both their needs, Clarke headed over to the tea trolley to switch on the kettle, washing her clay-stained hands, “Thank you, by the way.”

Lexa took a few gentle steps around the space on the floor to encourage life back to her muscles, “For what?”

“You know what.” She turned to face the violinist, leaning back against the sink, blue eyes following her as she walked around the span of the centre space.

Lexa continued her movements, but said nothing, her eyes meeting Clarke’s as she walked by.

In defeat, Clarke shrugged, “I mean, for one, the fact that you’ve given up your afternoon to sit uncomfortably without moving while I mash your face out of clay.”

“You’re also doing me the favour by putting said mashed face in John’s exhibition.” Lexa pointed out.

“Hardly me doing you the favour.” She shook her head, “But if you don’t want money for it, I’ll figure out some way of making it up to you.”

Lexa didn’t want money for it. Truthfully, there was nothing she wanted from Clarke. It was different with her, somehow. Probably because she was Jake Griffin’s daughter. As such, she didn’t feel it fair to start manipulating their acquaintance into something that would bring her personal gain.

“Actually,” Clarke continued, pulling Lexa back to meet her gaze with the contrasting softness of her voice, “I wanted to thank you for getting through to me the day of my father’s funeral. You’ll probably say something chivalrous like ‘anybody would have done the same’ or something, but the point is, it was _you_ , and you didn’t have to do that. I guess I wanted to get that across to you before asking you why.”

Lexa felt her breath catch somewhere in her chest, “Why what?”

“Why you decided to talk to me. Why you didn’t just walk away and leave me.”

“Because maybe I’m tired of the contention.”

“Maybe I am, too.”

“Clarke,” She stopped walking, the only sound filling the gap was the kettle as it finished boiling, “You’ve said in the past you can’t see us ever becoming friends.”

Clarke raised a slim eyebrow, pouring the hot water into each mug, “I have, and I believe you agreed with me.”

“I would be lying if I said I thought I could offer you the sort of friendship you’re used to. I also wonder if it would be more exhausting for you to befriend me than despise me, anyway.” She chose her next words carefully, eyes fixed on a vacant space between them, “But, if you don’t have any objections, I would like for us to be allies, at least.”

Clarke passed a mug into her hands, a familiar glint passing over her eyes, but one that Lexa hadn’t deciphered yet. All she knew was that it hooked her intrigue a little more every time she saw it.

“Allies.” Clarke repeated, turning the suggestion over in her mind, “Okay, I can do that. Cheers.” She knocked the edge of her mug against Lexa’s and took a sip, her face instantly creasing up into discomfort, “Still hot.” She mumbled, cheeks colouring.

Lexa didn’t need to say anything to prompt an irritated roll of Clarke’s eyes. All she had to do was raise both eyebrows in silence.

“Oh, shut up.”

Fortunately for Clarke, there was a knock on the door to rescue her, and she quickly placed down her mug, going to collect the pizza from the delivery girl.

“That was fast.” Lexa observed as she watched Clarke tip the girl with thanks and close the door behind her.

“Twenty-minute delivery.” She grinned, “But they are literally bang opposite the Arthouse and I am a loyal customer, so.” She finished with a shrug.

“Do you need some money for the pizza?”

Clarke just looked at her.

Lexa gathered that meant ‘no’.

The pizza itself was acceptable. It must have been, but Lexa truthfully recalled very little of the taste. She had found herself more attentive to the way Clarke juggled pizza, tea, images and pencils in her able hands, sitting cross-legged. She had a knack of concentrating on several things at once whilst still keeping the natural warmth of her countenance intact, even when her phone went off and the corners of her mouth tilted down. Still warm.

Lexa kept quiet, watching her between taking bites of the pizza. It felt like a small victory because Clarke was so caught up between worlds that she hadn’t spared any notice to the searching green gaze sliding over her skin.

“I’m not trying to be rude, by the way.” Clarke murmured, lifting her head up, eyes widening as she realised Lexa was already looking at her, “You know, for a change.” She added, pulling her eyes away, just for a second to recover, before she returned Lexa’s impassive stare.

But the steeliness subsided when she offered a small smile, “I’m not here to be entertained. Don’t worry.”

“Even so,” Clarke shrugged, “I resent people who spend every one of their unoccupied moments staring at a goddamn screen.”

“So, you’re not one for digital art, then?”

She swallowed before responding, “Always preferred paper.” Her phone buzzed once more and her jaw flexed, “Honestly, I would prefer just to pay somebody to answer all my emails.”

“Really? Well, I’ve got some good news for you. It might surprise you, but there are people in the world who do actually have jobs within that field. I believe they’re called, and don’t quote me on this, but I’ve heard they’re called something like administrative assistants.”

Clarke stared at her, lips parted, “You,” She began, shaking her head, “did you just make a joke? Could it be that you _do_ know what humour is, after all?”

Lexa wiped her hands on a serviette, giving a non-committal quirk of her eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk betraying her. Once most of the pizza had disappeared, Clarke set back to work. The remainder of the session panned out well enough and the intensity of their conversations thinned once the artist had dropped back into professional mode. That wasn’t to say Lexa didn’t still feel the exposing heat of her deep blue stare as it flicked between her and the clay creation. Focused, but free, Clarke finished off as much as she needed to before she straightened up.

It must have been getting late.

“When will you need me next?” Lexa asked, going to collect her clothes.

Clarke covered the clay in soaked cloths and shrugged, “Well, I’ll be working on this every day before the exhibition in my spare time. Usually in the evenings. I don’t expect you to be present all the time, of course. You’re welcome to drop in and see the progress any time, but I imagine I’ll be needing your statuesque services again over the weekend so I can add the final touches. Is that alright?”

Lexa mentally rearranged her weekend schedule and inclined her head, “Yes.”

When she left, she thought about the smile Clarke had just given her. It was small and reluctant, but it was genuine and it touched the corners of her eyes.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“So, how are you getting on with your project?” Despite the innocence of his smile, John Murphy was anything but innocent. Clarke cast him a brief glance as she sank into the comforts of the Orion beside him, nursing a pint.

“What project is that?” Wells asked as he, Raven and Octavia slid into the booth along with her.

“For Murphy’s exhibition.” She grimaced, gauging Wells’ reaction to the topic of conversation. He hadn’t been obviously upset Murphy didn’t want him to feature in the display. He’d complacently accepted the art tutor’s natural dislike towards him, but Clarke wondered if Wells would one day snap and punch him in the face. She certainly wouldn’t stop him. Although, he’d kept up his despondency recently, so she doubted there would be fists flying any time soon. “It’s going okay, actually.”

“What are you doing instead?” Octavia asked, sipping her gin neatly, “Thought you were doing Wells?”

Raven waggled her eyebrows and Murphy snorted distastefully.

Clarke ignored them both and shook her head, “Well, I was. Spent weeks on it.” She spared him a briefly scathing glare before returning her attention back to Octavia.

“Let me guess, he pissed and moaned about it?”

“I did.” Murphy replied, indignantly, “And with good reason.”

“So, what are you doing instead?” Octavia asked.

Clarke shrugged, attempting to maintain her nonchalance, “He suggested I work with Lexa instead.”

“Wha–” Raven struggled with her drink for a moment and they waited for her to stop spluttering so she could finish her question, “You’re doing _Lexa_? As in the violinist? As in the one person who is resistant to your charm? As in the one person who can’t stand you just as much as you can’t stand her?”

Raven wasn’t helping anything, really.

“Murphy, you’re an arse.” Octavia fired at him out of loyalty to Clarke, but the amusement was pretty evident on her face, just as it was on Raven’s. Wells seemed to be the only one who remained serious about it all.

“And…?” Murphy turned to Clarke, smiling faintly, “How’s it going with her?”

“Actually,” she paused, thoughtfully. She thought about backing Lexa up, or to a degree at least. She thought about sharing a fraction of their conversation, that they’d agreed on a ceasefire. She thought about _her_ and how she turned out to be somebody completely different than she’d anticipated. Instead, she pushed it all down beneath the surface. The last thing she needed was another reason to be teased relentlessly. “Yeah, we haven’t killed each other, yet. So, you know, there’s that.”

She kept it offhand. Nobody else needed to know.

“Are you going to behead the sculpture when it’s over?” Octavia raised an eyebrow, smirking around the rim of her glass.

“I’ll probably just behead Murphy instead.”

“Something I can get behind.” Wells contributed, quietly.

“Really, though, I thought the two of you seemed to be getting on a little better recently, or trying to be grownups, at least.” Raven commented.

“Wells and Murphy, or Clarke and Lexa?” Octavia asked.

“The latter. Obviously.” Raven gestured between the two gentlemen, “Lost hope for those two.”

“We’re trying to tolerate each other so it isn’t awkward when you and Anya finally get married.” Clarke responded.

“And hey, if the two of you keep it up, we can go on double dates.” She returned without missing a beat.

“I’m flattered, but I’d rather avoid dating you if I can help it.” Clarke wrinkled her face, “You’d be too high maintenance.”

“Are you kidding? Raven would be easy to date. Just buy her the occasional gadget and give her a good seeing to now and again and you’ll be fine.” Octavia scoffed, “It’s me you’d need to be worried about.”

“I _am_ worried about you. Constantly.”

Octavia flashed a grin, “Aw. Thanks, babe.”

The conversation naturally drew away from Clarke’s art project and instead drifted onto the latest dramas occurring behind the scenes of Octavia’s next motion picture. Wells had been quieter than usual. A fact Clarke had noticed over the last few weeks, but one she chose not to address. Ordinarily, she’d wait for him to come to her about it, but she knew he’d been holding back because it hadn’t been that long since her father’s funeral. He wouldn’t have wanted to seem insensitive.

On their way out of the Orion, she hung back and caught his elbow, “Jaha.”

He slowed, angling his body towards her, but looking just to the left of her ear. The others continued onwards, Murphy choosing to walk by himself, hands in pockets, signature pissy expression on his face. He glanced at Wells over his shoulder briefly, and Clarke almost got the feeling he knew something she didn’t.

“What’s up?” Wells asked, relaxing his shoulders backwards, just a tad too much.

“You tell me.” She arched an eyebrow, “You’ve been distant recently.”

He didn’t deny it.

“So, what’s going on?” She pushed, almost forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Look, it’s nothing. I’m good.” He evidently figured explaining himself would take more effort than he was prepared to use. Yet, despite trying to come off casual, his limbs were waxy and rigid.

“Don’t give me that, Wells. It doesn’t work on me. I know I’ve been going through stuff recently, but I’m always here for you.”

“It’s not,” His jaw clenched and he took a steadying breath, “it’s not the right time to talk about it. Look, your dad has just died. You’re getting shit off Murphy. You’ve just started taking charge of Arcadia itself, Clarke. This doesn’t matter.”

“So, when’s the right time to talk about it? When Murphy stops being Murphy? When I’m not taking charge of Arcadia anymore? When my dad stops being dead?”

“That’s not fair.”

She just shrugged, “I care about you, Wells. You are always going to matter. I get it if you don’t want to talk about whatever it is, but I don’t know how I can help if you don’t tell me what it’s about, at least.”

He shook his head again, releasing a humourless laugh, “I think you know what it’s about.”

Maybe she did.

Maybe she’d known all along what it was about.

She paused, waiting for him to enlighten her, anyway.

“No, don’t look at me like that.” He muttered, tilting his head down to the ground.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already figuring out how to let me down.” He scuffed the pavement with the toe of his boot. “I’ve wanted nothing more than to be there for you over these past few weeks. It’s selfish of me to let this get in the way of our friendship.”

“It’s not like you chose to feel like this, Wells.”

“I know, I know. It’s just been hard.” He exhaled, “It’s been hard because I love you. I can’t be there for you in the way I want to be because I know you don’t feel the same.”

Clarke felt her lungs deflate. It had always been unspoken between them. If Clarke could choose who to fall in love with, she would choose Wells Jaha in a heartbeat. But she couldn’t. Just as he couldn’t choose _not_ to be in love with her.

“I don’t think I can feel that way about anybody at the moment, Wells.”

“I know. I said it wasn’t the right time to talk about this.” He seemed angrier at himself than at her.

“Not because of the reasons you think.” She said, quietly, “Not because of my father’s death. Not because I’m stressed.”

He flexed his fingers, waiting for her to expand, but she didn’t. “Then, why?”

“It’s, it’s hard to explain.” She felt something bubble in her diaphragm. A sort of sickness. A darkness. Her stomach ached. Her chest did, too.

“Is it because of him? Your ex?” He asked, thick eyebrows pushing together as he tried to piece it all together. In a way, he was right. Just not for the reasons he thought. “You’re still in love with him?”

“No.” Clarke shook her head, her voice almost inaudible, “I’m not.”

“It’s okay if you are.” He sighed, feigning resignation. Clarke knew that in his mind, it was _far_ from okay, but she pretended he meant it, anyway. Maybe it would have been better for him to believe that. Maybe then he would drop it.

Of course, she knew he wouldn’t. Regardless. Wells had always been devoted to his causes.

“I’m not in love with him Wells. This just isn’t something I can talk about.” She felt her skin prickle, her breaths stammering in her chest, “I’m sorry.”

“Why, did he hurt you?” His face clouded over, the protective glare weighing heavily on her face.

“Yes, but… but not in _that_ way. Not in the way you might think.” She tried to take in as much oxygen as she could get, but her chest just wouldn’t expand in the way she needed it to.

Wells sighed, taking a step forwards and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, “I’m sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. Just, just forget this whole thing ever happened, alright?”

She leaned steadily into his embrace and it was nice. It felt safe. But it didn’t feel right and, even though it would break his heart, she knew it never would.


	11. Chapter 10 - Grumpy Old Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit, I did enjoy writing this chapter a great deal but still find myself slightly unsatisfied with the way it turned out. Such is the curse of creation.   
> Thank you so much to those who have shared their thoughts and left Kudos. Every time I get an email from someone leaving a comment, I swear I have never clicked on a notification faster. They have been so so needed and appreciated over the last few days. Apologies if there remains to be mistakes in this chapter. I edited this with my eyes half shut.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter.   
> Stay safe.
> 
> xox

It was an odd sensation, how the days passed her by in sequences of thick and sludgy hours. It wasn’t that time was dragging. In fact, there hardly seemed to be enough of it. It felt more that Clarke was trying to keep up with the world and found herself stuck knee deep in setting concrete instead. Like each day was a heavy grey reflection of the day before it. Meetings, telephone conferences, onslaughts of emails. That sort of thing. The one difference was that her mother had hired somebody to work as her PA, which helped a great deal. It meant they could filter out the less important demands and deal with the stuff Clarke didn’t want to.

She had taken the day off from her duties, knowing she would have to devote it entirely to her art. She’d had to cancel her session with Lexa a couple of days prior and had managed to reschedule it for the afternoon, which was really cutting it fine. In the meantime, she was seated in her workshop, idling a painting of one of her colleagues.

She’d known Niylah since starting at Arcadia and the two had grown close quickly. They’d had the occasional drunken rendezvous, but it had never developed into anything beyond that. Clarke had told her from the beginning that it could never be more than superficial attraction and Niylah had shrugged it off in easy acceptance. They hadn’t revisited that part of their friendship in several months, and remained comfortable friends with each other. Comfortable enough for Niylah to be platonically lounging naked on a linen sheet over Clarke’s couch, her dark blonde dreadlocks spread over the armrest. Clarke painted with precision. She’d both seen and painted Niylah without clothing enough times to know her curves and edges and so she barely even needed to look at her when painting.

“Who’s this one for then, Ni?” She asked, briefly glancing up at the woman as she smoothed out the final touches of the painting.

“For a company over in Sweden.” She shrugged, “They’ve got some kind of cultured sex-museum over there.”

“At least it’s about culture this time, rather than fetishes. I’ll still never be able to eat parsnips again.”

“We had an agreement you wouldn’t bring that up.” She scolded, half-heartedly.

Clarke just laughed, placing the paintbrush handle between her teeth as she gave the painting a final onceover. She was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in!” She shouted around the paintbrush, fully expecting it to be Murphy dropping off her new clay shapers.

But it wasn’t.

It was Lexa.

And she was 15 minutes early.

Clarke glanced up when she realised there was a noticeable lack of obnoxious Murphy comments and just raised her eyebrows at the quiet presence, “You’re early.” She took the brush out of her mouth, trying to fight off the smirk as Niylah glimpsed idly over to the newcomer. It took Lexa a moment to grasp what was occurring, her eyes glancing to the numerous candles creating the soft and seductive ambience, and then falling on Niylah relaxing on the couch.

“I’ll wait outside.” She said, respectfully.

Niylah pushed herself up off the couch and quirked an eyebrow in Lexa’s direction, “No need. It’s cool. I think we’ve finished now, anyway.” She looked over to Clarke for clarification.

“Yeah. You can come collect it tomorrow afternoon, Ni. Should be dried by then.”

She pulled on her yoga pants and tank top, smiling as she reached forwards to shake Lexa’s hand, “I’m Niylah, by the way.”

“Lexa.” She returned, receiving the handshake easily, but Clarke could see the stiffness of her wrist. She hid her smirk.

“Yeah. I know.” The other model inclined her head, “See you around. Cheers, Clarke.”

Finally, Clarke rose to her feet, wearing her usual style of attire consisting of an oversized, paint-spattered tee, and skinny jeans with unintentional rips in the material. The candlelight danced over her skin, teasing the contours of her face with unsteady shadows. There was a warmth in the hues of her eyes, maybe contributed to by the candles, but they held a flame of their own.

“Sorry for interrupting, by the way.” Lexa said eventually, once Niylah had left.

Clarke waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, don’t be sorry. It’s the sort of thing you’ll get used to.”

“Meeting scantily clad women in your workshop?”

She flashed a smile, “Yes. That is, I mean, if you choose to carry on visiting here after we’ve done the project.”

Lexa chose not to make any sort of commitments right then and took a few steps forwards as Clarke set about preparing the room. She tossed the linen sheet into a wicker basket to wash later and went to scrub her hands, “God, I could murder a brew.”

Lexa blinked, “Murder a brew?”

“Sorry. Damn British. Damn Raven.” She laughed, “What I meant is that I could do with a cup of tea.”

Lexa inclined her head whilst Clarke continued to busy herself with her equipment, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Gratefully, the artist cast a smile towards her and went to switch on the lights, leaving the candles to burn. They were scented and she liked it. Clarke removed a damp cloth from the clay sculpture, taking a step back to inspect for any visible damage. When satisfied, she readjusted her hair, pushing back the loose bangs that had escaped their captive hold.

“Do you take sugar?”

As she prepared to answer, Murphy’s voice slid into the midst from the doorway, “I take two, Miss Woods, if you don’t mind. Clarke has one.”

“Yes, but not heaped. I like it to be level.” Clarke was unsurprised at his sudden sweeping entrance.

Lexa glanced for a third receptacle, but Murphy had already located one, dropping it down on the tea trolley.

“Brought your tools.”

“About time.” Clarke returned, moving to receive the package her tutor had brought, “I take it you’re sticking around for a bit, then?”

He nodded, lowering himself down on the couch, kicking his legs comfortably up onto the cushions, “Yep. I’m finished for the day and I can’t be bothered to mark any projects right now. Thought I’d come and watch you work instead. Much more satisfying.”

There was a mischief in his eye, one that didn’t go unnoticed by Clarke. She chose not to ask about his ulterior motive because she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. Once the room was organised and the tea prepared, mugs sitting safely in respective hands, she beckoned Lexa over towards her, “Come, see.”

Obediently, Lexa made her way to examine the sculpture. Whatever she was thinking remained a secret for the time being, eyes scanning every detail. Clarke leaned her back against the workbench, palms gripping the edge lightly, “There’s still a bit of refining to do, but hopefully next time you come here, we can work on the warpaint.”

Her expression, solidly unreadable as usual, shifted slightly as she moved her gaze from the clay to the artist, “Would you consider me a narcissist if I praised it?”

Clarke shrugged, a small smile teasing her lips, “I would be too busy being shocked at your positive critique to think about it.”

Lexa arched an eyebrow, “And we both know what you think to my critique.”

“Yes, well, we both know I was an ass back then.” Her lips curved into a charming smile, “So, flatter away.”

“You know I think your talent is exceptional.”

The way her pale eyes flickered down to the smirk on Clarke’s mouth did not go unnoticed. Knowing she’d caught something of an intrigue in Lexa, the artist cleaved to her instinctual impulse to run with it. Body angling ever so slightly towards her model, she widened her grin, “Yeah?”

She expected Lexa to draw back, to naturally lean away from being teased, but she didn’t. Lexa mirrored her expression, and yet managed to wear the smile so unnervingly that she looked exactly like the leader of a bloodthirsty army about to go to war, “You’re wrong, though.”

“About?” Clarke didn’t back down. Not when Lexa’s challenge was right there for the taking, steely eyes unblinking, wide smile chilling.

“About just being an ass back then. You’re still an ass now.”

Clarke hadn’t expected that sort of response, but she was ready for it all the same, “Is that why you’re looking at me like that? You’re an ass girl?”

She shrugged coolly, pushing away from the sculpture and heading towards the centre space, sparing Clarke only a glance over her shoulder, “Maybe. Fully depends on the ass.”

“Well, as you say, my talent is exceptional. I can only assure you the rest of me meets those same standards.”

Murphy had been silently watching the exchange. Or, at least, he’d been silent up until then, and made the decision to slurp his tea loudly enough to break the flow of conversation.

“Don’t mind me.” He muttered into his mug, “Just sitting here, hoping for scenes no higher than PG-rating.”

“The only time it would get higher than PG, Murphy, is when I impale you with my clay cutter.”

“So long as you do that _before_ you start trying to shag all your models.” He quickly looked to Lexa, holding up a hand, “Not that I think you would engage in such scandal, Miss Woods. You’re smarter than that.”

“Yes, but _you’re_ not, Murph. You know some of us can look at something beautiful _and_ keep our dicks in our pants at the same time.” Clarke retorted, hardly aware of the hushed quiet that followed as she carefully chose her next tool. She only realised why Lexa was watching her with a heavy-lidded stare, something of amusement and surprise on her features, when she glanced up from her bench. As it happened, such a look left Clarke feeling highly self-conscious, although she didn’t betray it. Instead, she returned the stare, almost defiantly. Almost as if to dare Lexa to challenge her about it. If she did, she would repeat what she said before, because she had meant it. Clarke would be blind or a fool not to acknowledge the beauty before her, and there was no point backtracking. Lexa was smart enough not to comment, and Murphy must have decided he didn’t fancy getting impaled after all, and settled back into the cushions, sipping his tea at a more appropriate volume than before.

Eventually, the absence of speech thinned when Murphy slipped into his role as tutor to offer her his guidance. Clarke followed his advice, paying deep attention to the smallest detail. Eventually, Lexa faded into her role, too. Quiet, still, poised. Present only as an object, and she was good at it. She kept herself utterly controlled.

“So,” Murphy began, placing down his empty mug, “have you spoken to Wells?”

“About?” Clarke didn’t look at him.

“Come on, Griffin. Have you spoken to him since you broke his heart?”

Irritably, she wiped the clay from her shaper, “No, John, because every time I try to talk to him, his heart breaks all over again. So, such a thing would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”

He didn’t say anything immediately, presumably still taken aback at her use of his first name, so she continued.

“I’m giving him some space.”

Murphy sighed, “He will come around. He cares about you too much to let this get in the way of your friendship.”

“Or maybe he cares about me too much to stay friends.” She muttered.

“Are you pissed off?”

“Yes.” Her fingers worked into the surface of the clay, refining some of the edges to her handiwork, “But not at him. I’m pissed off at myself. Life would be so much easier if I could just…” She trailed away, shaking her head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“If you could decide what would make you happy?”

“Yeah.” She replied, shortly, “That.”

Murphy lapsed into thought, leaving Clarke to cool down before he spoke again, “I think that, I think that you will naturally find the things you need.”

“How so?”

He shrugged, “I know you’ll say I’m biased, and I am, but Wells isn’t right for you. Not right now. You know that. When you’re ready, your heart will want what it wants and maybe it will want Wells in the end, but there’s no use trying to make yourself feel something you can’t. If you’re supposed to feel something for somebody, you will.”

“You speak bullshit, Murph.”

“I speak the truth and you know it.”

The agitation returned and Clarke exhaled, “So, your take on life is ‘what will be, will be’?”

He rolled his eyes with a scoff, “God, no. I don’t think fate controls everything at all. What I’m trying to say is that I believe in gut instinct.”

“So, what about you? Is your gut instinct telling you what’s right for you, too?”

Murphy gave her a lazy half-smile, “The difference between my gut and your gut is that mine is a prick riddled with alcohol and poor decisions.”

Clarke sighed, her teeth resting gently on her lower lip as she concentrated on a particularly challenging part of the sculpture, “You pretend you’re far worse than you are, you know.” She pointed out, eventually, “You have a good gut and a good heart deep down, so stop trying to make everybody believe otherwise.”

He grimaced, “Well, we can agree to disagree. The thing I’m trying to get across to you is that your body will tell you when it’s ready for something new. You’ve always had a good instinct.”

“Again, we can agree to disagree there.”

Murphy knew better than to ask her to prove him wrong. He pushed himself off the couch and walked to stand behind her, resting both hands on her shoulders supportively, “I’m going to head off now, okay? All this talk of guts and alcohol has put me in the mood for cheese and brandy. Keep up the good work. This will be a masterpiece, Griffin. Yeah?”

She nodded and patiently allowed him to squeeze her shoulders lightly before he moved over to the door, “See you soon, Miss Woods.”

She managed a small twitch of her lips accompanied by a subtle nod of her head, before her expression returned to stone once more. Clarke felt her cheeks grow hot as Lexa’s eyes dragged back towards hers. She said nothing, which made it all the worse.

“Break?” Clarke asked, without waiting for a response, and headed over to the sink to wash her hands and splash her face with cool water. Lexa took advantage of the artist’s preoccupation to stretch out her limbs and respond to the notifications on her phone screen. The two of them followed their own thought pathways, merely existing in the same room together for a short time, neither one conversing with the other. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Once Clarke had patted her hands and face dry, she straightened up, fetching a cold drink for Lexa, “So, how’s the fiddle going?” She asked, passing the glass over to her and falling back a step.

“Thanks.” She took the drink and sipped at it delicately before responding, “It’s keeping me busy.”

“What takes up the most time? The violin, or Anya being bossy?”

“The latter. Without a doubt.” She replied, “I’m playing a wedding tomorrow and she must have sent me at least 16 reminders just in the last three days to prompt me to practice.”

Clarke inclined her head, smiling knowingly, “Sounds about right. So, a wedding then, huh? Anyone I know?”

Lexa shrugged, “It’s in the North, so maybe not.”

They spoke a little more, Clarke expressing more interest in Lexa’s schedule than usual. Granted, despite her genuine intentions, Lexa suspected that the artist was hankering for a distraction from her own demands. So, to appease Clarke, she kept up the small talk for as long as she could stand before making it obvious that she cared very little for banal conversation – which was a lot sooner than Clarke had hoped for, but a lot longer than expected.

“Okay, serious topic now.” Clarke relaxed back against the workbench, arms folding loosely across her chest as she zoned in on Lexa with confident determination, “How are you going to let me pay you back for this?”

Lexa made no attempt to conceal her increasing boredom with Clarke’s choice of conversation, “Have we not already established that you don’t owe me anything?”

“ _We_ did nothing of the sort. Here’s the thing, I don’t like being in debt.” She smiled in a way that suggested she’d never been privy to such an experience.

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever been in debt in your life.” Lexa observed, evenly.

Clarke raised an eyebrow, “And I don’t intend to start getting myself into it now. So, I’ll ask you again. How will you let me pay you back?”

“You already got me pizza.”

“And I will get you more unless you answer me.”

Lexa seemed to have very little investment into the conversation and she shrugged, casually, “Well, if the threat of pizza doesn’t strike fear into my heart, then I don’t know what will.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, uncrossing her arms and resting her palms against the clay-stained surface behind her. “God, you’re irritating.”

Lexa’s expression twitched, almost encouraging Clarke to continue the insults, cool amusement on sharp features.

“Never mind giving me that look, Woods.” It seemed Clarke was standing for none of it with the stubborn blue fire dancing behind her eyes.

“Can we not consider this an act of kindness? Those cost nothing, right?”

Clarke was stumped only for a second before she pushed back from the workbench, “And as you wisely said: sometimes, they cost something. So, even though this isn’t at all what either of us meant when we first had that conversation, we’re going to go with it now. So, what can I give you?”

Lexa, utterly unperturbed, gave the slightest shrug of her left shoulder and said, “How about we call it an IOU? I can call on the favour as and when I need it.”

Clarke thought about this, a series of debates passing through her head, “Wells said the same thing and then I found myself on stage, singing in front of god-knows how many people, against my better judgement.”

There was a small silence as Wells’ name was spoken, Clarke cautiously chewing on her lip at the realisation that Lexa had heard the entire conversation between her and Murphy.

“I don’t compete in battles of bands, though. I’m a soloist.” She broke the silence, “So, the chances of me asking you to sing in public are next to none.”

“I can’t imagine you would ask me to do something I didn’t want to, anyway.”

Due to the nature of the rest of their conversation, Clarke’s sudden change in tone caught Lexa off-guard and she blinked, “No.” She said, softly, “I wouldn’t.” 

The quiet settled between them once more, but this time, the edge had dropped. Then, Clarke glanced back up to Lexa, finding her eyes already resting on her face, “Okay, how about this? You’ve given me your time, right? A lot of it. So, if ever you need that same time from me, I’ll give it to you.”

“Okay.” Lexa agreed, inclining her head, “That seems fair.”

“I just have one more thing to ask of you.”

She quirked a single eyebrow upwards.

Clarke took a breath before presenting her request, “You won’t tell anybody about what Murphy and I were talking about, will you? You know, about Wells.”

“You mean, you don’t want me telling my non-existent friends something I don’t know anything about?”

“Exactly.” She agreed, a teasing smile adopting the shape of her lips, “I know what a gossip you are, Lexa. Sometimes it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise around you, you know?”

She acknowledged the humour before her expression fell serious once more, “I won’t tell anybody about the conversation.”

“Thank you.” The relief loosened the mask of mockery on Clarke’s face and she sighed, “It’s just that the others don’t know.”

Lexa looked as though she might not have agreed entirely with Clarke’s statement. She had seen the way Wells had looked at her before and she barely even knew the two of them. Therefore, if she noticed it herself, surely Clarke’s friends had.

“I know it would probably be the least interesting thing you’d have to talk about.”

“Which is saying something because I very rarely have anything to talk about.”

Clarke gave a catlike grin, the same one Lexa had seen the very first time they met, “You don’t?”

“Why, why are you looking at me like that?”

Her grin just widened.

Unimpressed and impassive, the model gave a slight tilt of her head, “I don’t understand what you’re doing, Clarke.”

“I think that people who say the least probably have the most interesting stuff to talk about.”

“I’m assuming you’re not going to explain your logic behind that.”

Clarke just shrugged, “No, probably not.”

“So, is this your way of saying you find me interesting?”

Her grin began to fade, lessening into a slight smile, “If I didn’t find you interesting, Lexa, I wouldn’t be featuring you in Murphy’s exhibition.”

She said nothing after that, resuming her pose as Clarke pushed away from the workbench, going to stand around the other side, wetting her hands before she continued. Despite her controlled positioning, Lexa appeared thoughtful, brooding. Clarke chose not to comment, and instead allowed the comfortable quiet to blanket the space between them.

.::.::.::.::.::.

It was as John Murphy had stated it would be; a masterpiece. The sculpture, when dry and finalised following yet another gruelling session, was not only exactly true to its model in detail and stature, but it equalled, possibly surpassed, the level of power Clarke had been aiming for. The figure, seated on a throne carved from wood by the artist’s own hands, stared out unseeingly onto scores of invisible warriors. Just by the expression on the sculpture’s face, one could tell that the army under her direction would be bended to their knees in rapturous respect. The throne had been painted dark grey to match the clay. Deep scarlet warpaint covered the area around the sculpture’s eyes, dripping down the sharp angles of her cheeks. Clarke had planned on using black paint initially, like in the photographs she had seen, but Lexa had suggested the red, feeling it had more connotations with the crimson in blood. More to do with passion. Passion for leadership. Passion for protecting her people. As such, Clarke complied. There was something murderous in the vacancy of the stare, in the way the jaw protruded slightly forwards, in the way clay hands tightened on the throne’s arms. Somehow, despite such a creation appearing so terrifying and so dangerous, the poise of the figure was almost casual. Almost relaxed. That part had been all down to Lexa. It had occurred naturally during Clarke’s shaping and moulding because Lexa had been sitting as though the stillness was all second-nature to her.

“That,” Murphy spoke softly, reverently, “that is everything. You know, Griffin, as much as I hate to admit it, you really do know exactly how to capture her.”

She shrugged, “Aren’t you glad I insulted your art now?”

His expression straightened out immediately, “No. Never insult my art again.”

She concealed a smirk, “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t ever call me Sir again, either.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“God, I could just…” He made a strangling gesture with his hands before he managed to stop himself, “but I won’t. Not until after the exhibition. Miss Woods, you exceptional work of art,” he turned to the model herself, “talking of the exhibition, I presume we will be seeing you there?”

“Of course.” She returned, smoothly, “Providing my presence is welcome.”

“Clarke and I insist.”

Clarke didn’t really have the opportunity to clarify whether this was the case or not, but she saw no opportunity to confirm or deny it as Murphy had already moved onto his next question, “And do you have any plans this evening?”

She offered him a quizzical tilt of her head.

“I think you should come out with us to celebrate.”

Almost instantly, her eyes flickered to Clarke’s as if to determine whether these waters were safe to test just yet. The latter just crossed her arms, awaiting Lexa’s response with an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere off-campus. There will be a few of us going out tonight.”

“I don’t know. Going out isn’t really my thing.” Lexa replied, still making attempts to read beneath Clarke’s exterior.

Sensing she needed some sort of justification or reason, the blonde finally spoke, “Come.”

“Why?”

“Feel like celebrating. Don’t you?” There was a challenge behind her blue eyes, one intended to entice affirmation from the brunette.

“I feel like I need to stretch.” Lexa experimentally extended her limbs, listening to the bones crack in relief as the blood circulated to the tips of her toes once more.

“Cocktails, maybe? Or some sort of whiskey on the rocks for you?”

“I thought we’d already established I’m not as fussy as you think I am.” She returned, arms lowering to her side.

“Perfect. Come on, then.” Clarke encouraged, evoking an uncertainty to cross Lexa’s features.

“What, now?” Green eyes flicked over the artist’s unkempt appearance.

Clarke grinned, indicating to her mucky attire, “Oh, yeah. Right now. This is my new London look. Like it?”

“It’s offensive.” Murphy interjected.

“Yes, well, not all of us can dress to kill all the time.” She gestured between Lexa and her tutor.

“I’m not sure I could handle seeing you drunk-dance.” Lexa teased, coolly.

“You’d be lucky to see such prowess.”

This time, the ghost of amusement shadowed her mouth, “I’ve been told I’m naturally lucky.”

“Must be if you get to come out with me.”

Lexa lifted her eyebrows, giving her the onceover, “Is this you confirming that I will see you drunk-dance?”

“Is this you confirming you want to? Even though you don’t think you could handle it?”

The violinist cocked her head to one side, her underlying confidence manifesting itself in the arrogant tilt of her lips, “I always welcome a challenge.”

And Clarke could see she meant it.

Despite the humour and the softening edge to her stare, Clarke saw that there remained to be a harshness behind it all. Something guarded. Her eyes were arctic fire. They had been from the moment they’d met. Something about that realisation prevented Clarke returning a thoughtless quip. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift to the dangerous smile playing with the corners of Lexa’s lips, “I believe that.” She said, honestly.

The amusement faded and gentle sincerity remained as she inclined her head, “Then, since we both know where we stand, I accept your offer.”

Clarke nodded, something pooling in the pit of her stomach, “I’ll text you the details later? We’re probably aiming for about nine-thirty. You can bring Anya if she’s free.”

“Works for me.”

“Thank god for that.” Murphy rolled his eyes, “Getting you to do anything is painful, Miss Woods.”

“As I like it.” She flashed a set of white teeth, just briefly, before she turned to make her way to the door, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“And watching you try to bone her is worse.” Murphy stated after the door closed behind her.

“Stop projecting, Murph. You’re better than that.” Clarke chastised without missing a beat.

“We both know I’m not.” He sighed, “Anyway, see you in a bit, Griffin. You know, when you look more…” He glanced her up and down with a gleam in his eye, “… London.”

.::.::.::.::.::.

The cocktail bar wasn’t as pretentious as Lexa expected it to be. Classy, sure. Overpriced, definitely. The smoky atmosphere, low bass and dim lights pulled bodies close enough together to stop the awkward divide between strangers. Despite the fact she could easily afford such a night now, she was automatically programmed to recoil at the inflated price of even the cheapest beer listed. But then, it could have been something about the way Clarke stood, skirt hugging her hips, blonde hair falling naturally over her shoulders, that made the prospect of drinking in the centre of England’s capital somewhat easier to stomach. As the daughter of Jake Griffin, she wouldn’t have been naïve to posh, upmarket venues, nor the money that was cast around with equalling wealthy weightlessness. It was evident in the way she relaxed against the bar, body at ease. It was evident in the way her eyes slid to find Lexa’s from across the expanse between them, and it was evident in the way a slow, languid smile shaped her lips.

Lexa had opted for dark makeup and dark attire, submitting to the vibe around her, and yet seeming to control the space altogether. As if she wasn’t intimidating enough as it was. She received Clarke’s smile, returning the greeting with a tilt of her head and a quirk of her eyebrow. Both Raven and Octavia caught sight of Clarke’s smile and the intrigue directed them in Lexa and Anya’s direction. Raven offered a small wave of her fingertips, but Octavia was a little less accommodating. She wasn’t rude, but she didn’t particularly display any warmth, either. It was something Lexa was both used to and fine with.

“Looking good, Miss Woods.” John Murphy was leaning casually beside her, sizing up the population around him at his own leisure, a drink sitting in his practiced hold, “Always a sight for sore eyes.”

“He thinks he’s charming.” Anya remarked from beside her.

His gaze flickered to her and the corner of his mouth twisted upwards, “Ah, and Crainn, always the cause of sore eyes.”

“Stop sassing and get me a drink, Murphy.”

“Anything for you, dearest one.” He amended with a graceful nod, turning to the waiter, “Lexa, can I get you something?”

She could feel Clarke’s eyes focusing intently on her, awaiting her response with piqued interest. She knew why. Part of her was tempted to accept the offer just to see her reaction.

“Actually, not just yet. I’d like to see the menu.” She didn’t need the bump Anya gave with her hip that directed her towards Clarke, but it certainly shortened the journey.

The artist consequently slid the menu across the black surface of the bar towards Lexa, an expectant expression on her features, “Choose wisely.” She advised.

Lexa merely lifted her head in question, noticing quickly the lack of beverage in Clarke’s hand, “You look far too sober to be enjoying this as much as you are.”

“I’ve been keeping a fresh palate so I can properly enjoy the taste of whichever cocktail you decide to get. I’ve decided I’m going to order one of the same.”

“Purely just so you can judge me?”

“I’m judgey.” She reasoned with a shrug. 

Lexa unfolded the menu, eyes falling to the options printed before her, “Yes, so I’ve noticed. Alright,” She glanced up to meet the blue gaze before her, “I’m going to place my order now and, in the meantime, I want you to guess which one you think I’ve chosen.”

Never one to turn down competition, Clarke shrugged nonchalantly, lowering her elbow to rest atop the surface. She waited patiently for Lexa to finish ordering, her finger pointing to a selection already, “That one.”

Lexa peered at the menu with raised eyebrows, “I was sure we’d established I can drink something _other_ than whiskey.”

“So, you didn’t order that?”

She shook her head, “Guess again.”

Clarke puzzled for a moment, flicking through the options before pointing to another, “This one with bourbon in it?”

“Still whiskey, Clarke.”

She paused thoughtfully, scanning the menu once more, before she decided on something with brandy, “That?”

It was a patient sigh that left Lexa’s lips, but a sigh all the same, “Does something about me scream that I’m a forty-year-old man?”

She didn’t get the chance to respond with something witty as the barman presented two shimmering pink drinks. Clarke’s reaction was enough to allow Lexa an appropriately satisfied smirk.

“What is _that_?”

“It looks like a unicorn threw up in it.” Raven commented, poking her head around Clarke’s shoulder to get her share in the conversation.

“I don’t get why people always assume unicorns would vomit rainbows.”

“I don’t get why you always have to ruin everything.” Raven replied, nodding to the two drinks, “What did you get, anyway?”

“Something sparkly with bubble-gum and gin.” Lexa answered, almost dubiously.

“That’s very girly of you.” Clarke peered into the glass, running her tongue over her lips.

“Again, not a forty-year-old man.”

She watched as Lexa pushed one of the cocktails towards her, the napkin beneath it sliding easily across the surface, “You got one for me?”

“I owed you.” She shrugged, breaking eye contact for a few passing seconds, presumably waiting for whatever quip Clarke had prepared. To her mild surprise the blonde simply took a sip of the liquid and returned the glass eloquently to the counter.

“Thank you.” She murmured.

She simply inclined her head, silently awaiting Clarke’s appraisal, barely even noticing the chatters of the other members in their group.

“Damn.” Clarke glanced at the cocktail as if seeing it for the first time, satisfaction on her tongue, “That’s good. Go on, try it.”

Lexa swallowed a mouthful, her expression betraying very little. At Clarke’s expectant stare, she tilted her head to one side, noncommittally.

“You regret not getting whiskey, don’t you?” A slow smirk pulled at her lips. There was something encouraging about it, something that made Lexa want to lean forwards and return the curve of her own mouth. Instead, she simply held her gaze for two seconds longer than felt natural and placed the glass back onto the bar, carrying an air of indignance.

“I regret not getting whiskey.”

“Well, I appreciate this choice, anyway.” Clarke smirked as the group drifted towards a vacant booth.

“I thought you might.”

“Yeah, show Clarke anything that looks like it will clog her arteries or make her teeth fall out and she’s all for it.” Raven offered, sliding between Anya and Octavia.

“I’d dispute that, but I have no grounds to do so.”

“You still have all your teeth.” Lexa pointed out.

“At least I have that going for me, then.” She grinned.

“Where’s Wells, anyway?” Octavia frowned, glancing about as if he would pop up out of the ground with jazz hands. Nobody said anything, faces turning automatically towards Clarke as if she possessed all the answers.

“What?” She dropped the instinct to respond defensively and frowned, lightly, “I don’t know.”

“Not like him not to show.” Raven pulled out her phone to message him, oblivious to the nausea developing in the pit of Clarke’s stomach.

Murphy, sensing the need to cause a distraction, nudged Anya’s arm with mischief in his eye, “I’m more interested in these other love interests of yours, Crainn.”

When she smiled, she looked like a shark, “They’re out of your league, Murphy.”

“They’re out of yours too, but here we are.” He returned without blinking.

“Love interests?” Raven clutched at her metaphorical pearls, gasping, “ _Plural?_ ”

Clarke swooped in to soothe her friend’s faux heartache, “We both know Anya has eyes for only you, Ray.”

“Why, is she blind?” Octavia chipped in with an angelic smile.

“I’m not sure why any of you are this fixated on such a menial part of my life.”

“Because you’re married, none of us know anything about him, you rock up to the odd event with huge tattooed models and never say a word about who they are or why you all look like you host sex shows for royalty.” Octavia bit her lip, “And if that’s what you do, please get me a ticket. My _god_ , please.”

Clarke caught onto the distant longing in Octavia’s eyes and grinned, “Are you going to tell us who they are, An?”

She shrugged, lightly, “Family.”

“That’s all we’re getting? Family? Like, blood family, or…?” Realising she wasn’t sure how to complete her sentence, Octavia trailed away, probably focusing instead on images of the men in question.

Anya met Octavia’s far-off gaze, quickly bringing her back to the present, “Does it make a difference?”

“God, I hope you don’t host sex shows with them if you are related. Be a bit awkward.” Raven creased her face up at the thought.

“No, I only do solo ones.” Anya shrugged casually, eyes lingering chillingly for a second longer than natural.

Raven almost spat out her drink.

Clarke had finished her unicorn vomit and was busy eyeing up the glass in Lexa’s hand. She was making slow progress. Very slow progress. The blonde decided to take matters into her own hands and she headed over to the bar, returning to the group some minutes later. She sidled up beside Lexa and caught her eye whilst the other members of the party continued to submit to the wiles of alcoholic influence, still attempting to break Anya’s impenetrable front. She took the drink from Lexa’s hand, swapping it with one of the more recently purchased cocktails. The violinist blinked and glanced down at the unexpected contact, “What’s this?”

“Come on. You know what it is.” Clarke tilted her head to one side, sipping at the shimmering pink liquid acquired from Lexa’s hold.

She experimentally sniffed the contents, the corner of her lips twitching, “I can guess.”

“It’s called the Grumpy Old Man.” Clarke laughed, quietly, “I thought it was fitting.”

“Funny.” She took a taste of the cocktail and cocked an eyebrow, “It’s actually very good. Want to try some?”

Clarke pointed to the glass on the table, “I did get another for me.”

Lexa glanced between Clarke and the brown liquid, doubtfully, “Maybe try some first.”

“What, you think I won’t like it?” She rolled her eyes, that familiar overconfidence resurfacing. Lexa just shrugged and held her glass out towards her. Clarke took the straw in her mouth and sucked, eyes flickering up to meet the expectation in Lexa’s shadowed stare. Once she’d sampled enough, she pulled back, wearing a smug smile.

Amused, Lexa awaited a verdict, but none came.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” She asked after it became apparent Clarke was going to continue to look pleased with herself.

Clarke shook her head, still remaining wrongfully smug, “No. No, I did not.”

At this, the brunette laughed aloud. Clarke’s faux-conceited smile quickly transformed into something a little more genuine. Murphy gasped.

“Never did I think I’d see this day.” He exclaimed.

“I thought I would have killed you before now, too.” Clarke quipped, and as Murphy opened his mouth to explain himself, she shook her head, “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Lexa had resorted to enjoying her drink quietly, still watching her with a mixture of warmth and something else Clarke found impossible to decipher. It was a moment over all too soon when Anya moved to stand next to her tutee, leaning over to catch her attention.

“Hey, let me borrow you for a minute.”

It turned out to be a little longer than a minute. Lexa was promptly dragged, by Anya, into some sort of conversation with a couple of young people at the bar, although it was impossible to tell who they were from such a distance.

Raven wasted little time in pulling Clarke into some sort of debate she was having with a gentleman, consequently providing the sort of distraction she needed. The thing she lacked was the reason behind such a need for distraction. All she really learned was that Lexa found it easier than she let on to fall into the constructs of conversation, after all. That, in itself, was irritating and she couldn’t place her finger on why. Dwelling as minimally on that thought process as possible, Clarke focused her attention on Raven and the man she was linking arms with. Their debate had progressed quite quickly into something a little less platonic and Clarke decided her attention was best focused elsewhere.

“Do you know who that is?” She nudged Murphy, nodding her head towards the people caught in avid discussion at the bar. From her present angle, Clarke could see the face of the unfamiliar woman. She was attractive, for sure. Dark makeup, dark hair, paler highlights of dusty blonde. The sort of skin that looked like it would tan after spending ten minutes under the winter sun. She was the kind of woman Clarke would turn to take a second or third glance at.

“You mean the one talking to your warrior princess?”

“Who, Anya? Well, she isn’t _my_ warrior princess, but I’ll let her know _you_ think she is.” Clarke returned, evenly. She knew Murphy was hellbent on getting some kind of reaction out of her tonight and she wasn’t planning on making it easy for him.

“You’re hilarious.” He rolled his eyes, “But, actually, I have no idea who she is. I think the guy is–”

Before he could explain, Octavia bumped her way through their group, waving to somebody else a few yards away, “–Bellamy?”

Clarke turned, catching sight of the older Blake sibling a few paces away. His eyes lit up in acknowledgement and he weaved his way over to them, “Sup, O. Clarke.” He offered a roguish smile, one that reminded her a little too much of his sister, “Didn’t realise you were out tonight.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see your mug, either.” Octavia let her brother tug her into a one-armed hug, “Who are you out with?”

Bellamy gestured to the bar, “Some of the crew.”

“Crew? Nobody likes a pretentious arsehole, Bell.” Octavia teased, “Just say ‘friends’ like everyone else.”

“Yes, but in this instance, it is an actual crew.”

Octavia was about to return something sassy, but stopped herself as her eyes landed on the tall, muscular gentleman at the bar with Lexa and Anya. Then, it clicked.

“One of Anya’s relatives?” Clarke bit back a smirk, “Is he a part of your crew, Bellamy?”

“Who? Oh, Lincoln?” He shrugged, “Not exactly.”

“So, how do you know him?”

Bellamy swallowed a mouthful of beer before replying, “He’s a music producer.”

“Right?” Octavia waited, “So, that explains literally nothing.”

“He knows Ash.” He continued.

“Wait, Ash?” Octavia took a doubletake, finally seeing the woman Clarke had been observing, “As in the singer, Ash? As in _Echo_?”

“Echo is her stage name, yeah. They’ve done some collabs together.”

Octavia didn’t really care much about the collaborations but another look at Lincoln seemed to tempt her inquisition further, “Are they sleeping together?”

Bellamy’s cheeks reddened, but his sister didn’t seem to notice, “What? How would I know?”

“With your exclusive knowledge?” She pushed.

“I mean, I don’t think so.”

That was all she needed, apparently.

“Great, thanks!” With a grin, she was already gone, making confident tracks towards the powerful giant at the bar.

“Well, that’s that, then.” Clarke concluded. Bellamy just looked perturbed. Largely so. “So, what’s the crew for?”

“I’m directing Ash’s next music video. We’ve just finished shooting today so we’ve come out to celebrate.”

All it took was one glance to read Bellamy’s not-so-inner conflict.

“You like her?” Clarke nodded to the singer presently slicing through words with Lexa and Anya. It came as a shock to see Lexa not only acknowledging her, but actually continuing to engage in conversation with her. She ignored the twinge beneath her ribs.

“What makes you say that?” He asked, finishing off his pint.

“She’s hot and you have a penis?” She teased, “I mean, that as well as the fact as you keep looking longingly at her.”

He shrugged, “Yeah, well, you’ve looked at her, too. You get it.”

Clarke nodded, “So, here’s your dilemma, right? You don’t want Octavia to talk to Lincoln because you don’t approve of him for whatever reason. You approve of him even less now Octavia’s interest has sparked. However, whilst Lincoln is occupied, Ash is free for you to talk to without interference.”

As much as he looked as if he would like to protest to Clarke’s observation, he simply exhaled, “Well, yes and no. Looks like your friends are occupying her just fine without Lincoln’s help.”

Clarke chewed her lip in thought, “Alright, come on, Blake.”

Leading him through to the bar, fingers curled around his wrist, Clarke reached the group, now consisting only of Anya, Lexa and Ash. Octavia and Lincoln had wasted little time in stealing away to a quieter space by the bar. Octavia had never had a huge problem getting what she wanted.

Ash was halfway through laughing at something either Anya or Lexa had said as they arrived. It was quickly confirmed to be the latter as she touched the violinist’s arm, gently, “Funny, too? Damn. To be honest, I’m shocked this is the first time we’ve met. Crainn, where have you been hiding her?”

“In plain sight.” Anya returned, less than enamoured by whatever was transpiring, “Perhaps you watched The Proms with your eyes closed?”

Ash shrugged, “Actually, I missed it.”

Clearly, judging by the worrying glitter pricking Anya’s eyes, Clarke couldn’t have chosen a better time to intervene, “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met before. Bellamy was just telling me all about your work. It sounds huge.” She reached forwards, offering Ash her hand, “I’m Clarke by the way, a friend of Bellamy’s.”

Lexa’s eyes drifted silently to the blonde, assessing the handsome young man pressed lightly to her side. It took Ash a moment to register exactly what was happening. At the reassuring smile the blonde presented, she decided the handshake was probably safe to accept, although her sudden reservations remained, “Yeah, I know. As in, I know who you are.”

“It’s Ash, right?” Clarke naturally carried the introduction to a new conversation, despite the suspicion she faced.

“Yeah.” The singer inclined her head, “Yeah, I mean, most people call me Echo.”

“Which do you prefer?”

She paused, still trying to gauge Clarke’s persona, “I suppose I just ought to feel lucky you’re addressing me, at all.”

She managed to conceal it, but the realisation struck Clarke a little harder than she expected it to. She couldn’t just be introduced as someone’s friend anymore. She couldn’t just be taken at face value as a bubbly, charming girl from Tennessee. She was now known as Clarke Griffin, Jake Griffin’s daughter and heir. So, her confident personality wouldn’t now always be interpreted as something endearing, but probably as something confusing or arrogant instead.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, at least.” She managed a warm smile, turning to Bellamy, hoping to push away the tightness in her chest, “So, tell us more about the project. Where did you film it?”

Bellamy managed to take the cue and launch into delivering an enthusiastic report on the location, the style and the background of the video. Ash contributed enough to keep Bellamy satisfied, but her eyes kept flickering between Clarke, Lexa and Anya, almost as if she felt she had been set up for some kind of trap. Clarke was grateful for the opportunity just to listen, despite being subject to the several onceovers. That, she was used to. She could handle it. She even understood it. It didn’t make it any less unpleasant, but even so, she could manage it. It was just harder to know she was considered a threat because of her name, not because of her talents.

“So, you’re all out together, then?” Ash asked, once the project had been detailed in full, gesturing to the three of them. When nobody leapt to answer first, Clarke found herself sighing internally; she knew Ash had very little interest in speaking with her alone. Or, if she did, she was _very_ good at concealing it. Some people opted to play the hard-to-get game. Clarke, however, suspected Ash was more focused on recruiting Lexa for something musical. In a way, it made her all the more grateful she had steered clear of that industry.

“Yeah, there’s a few of us.” She nodded.

This time, Ash directed her question solely to Lexa, “And how do you all know each other?”

Clarke decided to keep herself quiet, sensing the singer’s cagey undertone. Instead, she finally let her eyes flicker to Lexa’s, intrigued as to how she might respond.

“Anya is my tutor. I know Clarke through her.” It was exactly the sort of simple, closed answer that could have been expected of Lexa.

Ash spared Anya a teasing smile, although it wasn’t without motive, “It’s good to see you have fingers in everyone’s pies, Crainn.”

Clarke knew immediately that the well-established music tutor was highly unlikely to take kindly to such a remark, however it was intended. She rather hoped she would be able to swap subjects before Anya could formulate some kind of answer, but alas, the musician was far quicker than Clarke was in that second.

“Yes. I do,” She answered, softly, “and I’ll tell you why, sweetheart, because most of those pies you’re talking about are ones that have come from my kitchen.”

Impressed, Ash inclined her head, “Noted.”

Anya made no further attempt to engage with her and glanced to the other side of the room to briefly observe Octavia acquainting herself happily with Lincoln. She rolled her eyes, concluding she had little escape route from this point and resorted to waiting for it all to be over instead.

“I guess I can’t say I’m surprised you run in these circles though, Woods. Your talent is exceptional.” Ash had obviously forgotten that the circles she referred to were both standing right beside her.

“Circles?” Clarke intervened, “Actually, Anya is a bit of a square.” She smiled sweetly at the music tutor, knowing full well she wouldn’t appreciate it. She therefore couldn’t act surprised when Anya flashed two fingers in her direction. She also knew that Ash would ignore the remark too so, really, she wasn’t why she’d said it at all. Clarke moved her attention to Bellamy, hoping to read his vibe. He seemed more or less okay, chipping in every now and again, but Ash wasn’t exactly picking up the bait. She could see, judging by the progressing acquaintance through her peripherals between Octavia and Lincoln, that she had to think of something fast. Bellamy would probably have something loud and rude to say about the two of them should he notice.

“Whose round is it, anyway?” Ash glanced pointedly to her, urging her to volunteer, wearing something of a cat-like smile.

Clarke, choosing not to enter into whatever competition or game the young woman was attempting to instigate simply inclined her head, “What would everyone like?”

“It’s good, Clarke. I’ll get these.” Bellamy offered, reaching for his wallet.

She would have no such thing. Clipping his hand with her fingers, Clarke provided him with a meaningful shake of her head, “No, I could be queuing a while. You stay here and entertain instead, okay?”

Gratefully, he nodded, gathering the significant look she shot at Ash, “At least take my card?”

“No, don’t be silly.”

“I’ll have a martini.” Ash’s smile widened as she inched closer to Bellamy, just enough to keep him interested.

“Just an Estrella for me, please.” He tried again, unsuccessfully, to pass his card to Clarke. She glanced to Anya who just nodded her head and muttered a quiet “same as him”.

When she looked to Lexa, Clarke already knew she would decline, but she asked anyway, “What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thank you. I’ll come help you carry them, though.”

Anya and Ash looked disappointed in equal measures when the violinist sidled away with Clarke to get served, “Don’t be long!” One of them called, but it wasn’t totally clear who.

The young artist was unusually quiet as they joined the queue, somewhat distracted from the present. It was normal, especially of an artist. Lexa had seen her phase out of reality a couple of times before. Still, she had consumed enough alcohol to boldly interrupt whatever reverie Clarke might have been experiencing, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” She glanced to the brunette, “Are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.” She drummed her fingers lightly against her thigh for a moment before speaking once more, “No drink for you, then?”

“I can’t justify it.”

“The price?”

Lexa shrugged, lightly, “That, too.”

They both took a step forward as the queue started to thin, “Oh? What else?”

“Anya pointed out it would be a good networking opportunity. I’m not sure I want to get drunk in case she’s right.”

“Networking? That’s what you’re trying to do?” Clarke raised both eyebrows.

For a brief spell, Lexa seemed bewildered, “What else would it be?” She frowned, just slightly.

“I thought you were just trying to make friends.”

A few seconds passed where neither party said a word, until Lexa eventually laughed, consequently drawing out a chuckle from Clarke as well, “Can you imagine?”

With a smile still on her lips, the artist shrugged, “Well, you fooled me, so your networking must have gone well. She seems impressed by you, anyway.”

“Do you think?”

With a playful roll of her eyes, she grinned, “Sure. Didn’t you see her practically salivating on your shoes?”

Lexa seemed a little less convinced, “That would be a shame. I like these shoes.”

“A solid choice.” Clarke agreed, taking another step closer to the bar.

She sighed, mirroring her movements, “Anya initially wanted me to meet her cousin, Lincoln. He’s a music producer. She suggested I do some recordings with him at the studio.”

Clarke inclined her head, “It’s a good idea.”

“Yes.”

“I think you were trying to agree with me there, but you look like you still have reservations?”

Lexa exhaled, “I’m just not satisfied with my latest composition.”

Knowingly, Clarke bowed her head forwards, a half smile tugging at her lips, “Will you ever be?”

“I would hope so.”

“But?”

“But,” Lexa rested an elbow gently on the bar as they filtered between the crowds, “I have a long way to go.”

“You remember when you found me in a storage closet?” Clarke didn’t need an answer. She knew she remembered. “You reminded me who I was. Whenever you need reminding of who you are, take a look at the sculpture we created. That’s who you are. You’re fierce and you’re powerful. You will accomplish everything you set your mind to. Don’t bully yourself.”

“How?” Lexa turned suddenly, eyes piercing Clarke’s with such force it almost left her breathless, “How can I not be hard on myself when it has taken absolutely everything I have to get here?” 

“I never said don’t be hard on yourself. I said don’t bully yourself. You deserve to be here. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.”

Suddenly, she wavered. Lips parted, Lexa glanced to the bar surface, taking slow breaths.

“What?” Clarke asked.

“Nothing, it’s just that Anya said something similar the first time we met. She told me that most people would try to convince me I didn’t deserve to be here, but you’ve just done the opposite.”

Easily, Clarke lifted a hand to catch the barmaid’s attention, “Yeah, well, she’s right at least 98% of the time, and I’m not most people.”

“No, you’re not.” Lexa murmured, “It just took me a little longer than it should have to realise.”

The artist placed her order and removed her bank card from her purse, “Look, if you ever want a fresh set of ears on your music, you can let me know.”

“But you hate music.”

Clarke shook her head, “It isn’t the music I hate and, besides, I owe you time.”

Lexa fell quiet after this, turning the suggestion over in her mind. She helped carry the glasses back across to the disbanded group. Anya was leaning against the bar and chatting to Murphy, whilst Ash was busy on her phone, standing beside a thoughtful looking Bellamy.

“Here.” Clarke passed Ash the martini and then Bellamy his beer, “And for you, too.”

“Cheers.” He tapped his bottle against her glass, taking a swig.

“Well, I’m going to leave you both to it. It was good to meet you, Ash. I hope all goes well with the rest of your production.”

She gave a tight smile, “Thanks, Clarke. I appreciate it, and the martini, too.”

“Yeah, next one’s on you.” She grinned, although they both knew she didn’t mean it. If Clarke could help it, she wouldn’t be bumping into Ash any time soon, and probably vice versa.

She headed back to Anya and Murphy, taking the drinks Lexa had been carrying and handing them over to them both. They thanked her, returning to their current discussion whilst Lexa carefully moved back to stand beside Clarke.

“I understand it, you know.” She said, evidently after some thought, “Why you resented how I was with you when we first met.”

Clarke tilted her head to one side, waiting for her to continue.

“I saw it, then.” She indicated subtly to Ash as she sipped her martini, “In a way, I was a little like her when we first spoke at the bar.”

“In a way.”

“So, can I ask why you took it so personally with me, but not with her?”

“Because,” Clarke sighed, still not sure she fully knew the answer herself, “because Anya likes you and she doesn’t like Ash.”

“That’s the reason? You don’t like her because Anya doesn’t like her?”

Clarke wasn’t fully prepared to admit to how childish that sounded, so she reassessed her reasoning, testing out a few theories in her head first, “Maybe because Ash is behaving like that towards me based on who my father was. You didn’t know that at the time.”

Lexa nodded, slowly. Blankly. She didn’t appear satisfied.

“Okay.” Clarke paused before she trialled the most likely cause, “Because, Lexa, honestly I think I felt a connection with you.”

As she said the words, she knew they sounded stupid. At least, they felt stupid as they left her lips, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t mean them, because she did. She felt the truth lift her tongue as she spoke and yet she thought it sounded even more childish than her previous excuse.

Lexa was quiet, pensive even.

Clarke didn’t bother to try and rectify or explain herself. She simply let the violinist make of it what she wanted and sipped at her gin in the meantime. She had made the disclosure without much discomfort on her part.

“I think I felt a connection with you, too.”

Clarke arched an eyebrow, inclining her head in acceptance, choosing to say nothing further. They didn’t need to analyse it, dissect it or even understand it. Maybe one day they would, but they had barely even considered moving past being allies. Even allies, at times, felt precarious. Whatever the connection was, whatever it meant, it was something that didn’t need to be defined. Especially not in a half-intoxicated state in some smoky bar.

Just like everything else, it could wait.


	12. Chapter 11 - Woodwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologise it's slightly later than usual. Schedule is a little disrupted at present. I had fun with this one and got to do a little nerding out about violins.
> 
> Enjoy
> 
> xox

“So, when’s the exhibition again?” Raven was lounging comfortably on the velvet couch in Clarke’s workshop, a mug of tea sitting on the flat panes of her stomach, “And do you think Murphy would be pissed if I turned up in a black balaclava, brandishing a water pistol?”

“Can’t imagine why that would upset him, at all.” Octavia was perched cross-legged in front of the heater, wrapped up in a cosy, masculine hoody. Clarke could only assume it belonged to her most recent romantic interest. She didn’t waste much time in acquiring things she liked.

“It’s the weekend after this one.” She replied, busying herself with preparations for her next art session. The week had passed by her in a blur; from meetings to classes to studying to projects, it had felt like she had barely had two seconds just to breathe. It had given her little opportunity to ruminate on the parts of her life she was neglecting and, as if she had broadcasted her thoughts to the other inhabitants in her workshop, Octavia looked to her.

“You heard from Wells?”

“No.” She shook her head, “Have you?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.” Raven shrugged, dipping a biscuit into her tea, “Although you know what his dad’s like. He’s probably under a lot of pressure at the minute.”

“Yeah, but aren’t we all?” Octavia returned, and Clarke couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, yeah, look at y’all. Rushed off your feet.”

Octavia grinned widely, “Exactly.”

“Bollocks!” The two of them turned to witness the mortified expression on Raven’s face as she lifted her head in undiluted pain, “I dropped my goddamn custard cream in my tea.”

“Oh, babe.” Octavia slid the packet across the floor to land beside the couch, “That’s awful news.”

Clarke provided a sympathetic pat on the head as she walked by, going to pick up her phone from the work bench to check the time. In the end, she forgot to process the numbers on her screen after seeing an unexpected message from Lexa, instead.

_From: Lexa_

_[10:16] I wondered if I could borrow your talents later?_

_To: Lexa_

_[13:35] Which talents?_

_[13:36] That sounded far more conceited than intended._

_From: Lexa_

_[13:38] I’m trying to patch up an old violin of mine._

Clarke waited for some sort of explanation to follow as to how she might offer her services, continuing to set up her work space but, even after fifteen minutes or so, none came.

_To: Lexa_

_[13:59] Well, if you’re looking for somebody to damage it even more, I’m your man._

_[13:59] *Woman_

_From: Lexa_

_[14:00] Both at the same time? Impressive._

_To: Lexa_

_[14:03] Another talent of mine. I’ll be in my workshop all day and all evening, so feel free to drop by any time. I’d advise showing up after 6:30 though if you don’t want to see several sets of breasts and penises._

_[14:03] Penes? Penii?_

_From: Lexa_

_[14:05] Do they all belong to you?_

_[14:05] Perhaps penii._

_To: Lexa_

_[14:07] Only some of them._

_From: Lexa_

_[14:08] And if I did want to see them?_

_To: Lexa_

_[14:09] Then turn up when you like._

_From: Lexa_

_[14:10] Noted. I’ll see you later._

“And what has your attention so occupied, Griffin?” Raven asked, once she had recovered from her biscuit debacle.

“My apologies, madams. I assure you I am now fully invested in the delights of your company.” Clarke put on her best English accent, earning a nose-wrinkle from Raven and a shudder from Octavia, “Anyway, love machine, how about you fill us in with all the details about your new friend?”

“So, it turns out he’s actually Anya’s cousin. He’s been DJing for clubs since he was 16 and then got into music production from there. He doesn’t really have anything to do with Arcadia, though. Said he doesn’t want to be in Anya’s shadow. He prefers not to conform.”

“You could write his Spotify bio.” Raven teased.

With a sarcastic smile, Octavia nodded, “Yeah, great idea.”

“So, you learned all this about him just that night?” Clarke glanced over her shoulder as she stood at the sink, cleaning her tools.

“And the next morning.” Octavia offered a coy smile, one that lasted no longer than two seconds, before launching into the full ins and outs of her recent acquaintance with Lincoln. At Raven’s request, she left little to the imagination, “And I’m seeing him again this weekend.”

“What are you doing?” Raven’s eyes sparkled.

Octavia’s lips tugged into a mischievous smile, “Never you mind.”

“You’ve always had a thing for the bad boys.” Clarke dried her hands on the towel, finally going to make herself a cup of tea.

“As opposed to you?” She scoffed, “What’s your type, then?”

Raven placed down her empty mug, angling her face towards the blonde with interest, “Strong and silent?”

“The non-existent ones, preferably.” She replied, tartly, “They cause the least problems.”

“They’re not as good in bed, though.”

Clarke shrugged, “Can’t have it all.”

They continued to make idle chitchat until eventually Clarke had to kick them out in time for the arrival of the other artists.

“Been a pleasure.”

“Are you coming to the Orion for a drink tonight?”

Clarke chewed her lip, lightly, “Probably not.”

“I remember when you used to be fun.” Octavia complained.

“Do you?” Raven blinked in surprise, “I can’t remember that, at all.”

“That’s because you’ve damaged your cognition due to excessive drinking on weeknights.” Clarke waved them both off, “Now, unless you want to strip naked and join in my next session, you might want to make yourselves scarce.”

“Actually, Griffin, one day I’ll attend one of your raunchy classes and surprise you with my astounding arse.”

Clarke smiled patiently, “Your astounding ass will not be a surprise to me, Ray.”

“No? Why, have you looked at it already?”

“Many times.” She assured her, “By the way, my classes are not raunchy, just so you know. The naked body should not always be used as a symbol of sex.”

Octavia smirked, “It isn’t Sunday, you know. Save your sermons for the congregation, Griffin.”

“Well, y’all need Jesus.” She returned, indignantly, “I’ll see you both later.”

Once they’d disappeared, taking their positive spirits with them, Clarke toyed with the lighting in the workspace and propped open her door so people could walk in when they arrived. They filtered into the room in small groups. Clarke apologised that their usual workspace was occupied for exams, but nobody really seemed to mind. In fact, many of them whispered excitedly to themselves, some glancing furtively (and others less so) at the display of her artwork. She had concealed much of the unfinished work with linen sheets, hoping to keep the area as distraction free as possible. She kicked the session into life within moments, the artists hushing as she spoke; it could have been the natural timbres carried in her voice, or it could have been her social status, but whatever it was she possessed, Clarke Griffin knew how to capture a room.

The session passed smoothly enough. Clarke wasn’t getting directly involved in the activities herself, aside from the odd suggestion or critique, which actually brought some relief. She understood why Murphy took pleasure in kicking back and watching other artists work for a change. The attendees were grouped into twos or threes and spent around half an hour each modelling for the other person to paint. With around half an hour until the end of the session, Clarke felt her body already beginning to unwind in preparation for the evening. It was only to be expected that such a process would grind to an uncomfortable halt when her eyes landed on the new presence standing in the doorway.

“Feel free to begin your peer-critiquing when you’re ready. I’ll be back in a few moments.” She made her way to the door, stepping out onto the corridor and closing it behind her, facing the recent arrival with caution.

“Sorry, Clarke, I should have messaged first or something. I can come back later.” Wells was clasping his hands together with the intention of preventing any unsteadiness that would betray him, “Sorry.” He said again.

Shaking her head and habitually biting her lip, she took a hesitant step closer, “No, it’s okay. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I just, I just needed to talk.” He exhaled, “But I guess now isn’t a good time.”

“I mean, I’m facilitating at the moment. It finishes at 6, so you could stick around until then. Make yourself a drink if you like?” She opened the door and allowed Wells to step inside, albeit gingerly and slower than she would have liked. He took himself off into the corner of the room, standing quietly, brooding. Once the session had come to a close and the artists had filtered from the vicinity, Clarke shut the door, rolling her shirt sleeves to her elbows.

“Thanks for waiting.” She smiled, pushing a chair towards him, trying to ignore the mess left behind from the session. She would have to deal with it later, crushing as the thought was. She gave him all the time he needed to figure out exactly what thoughts he needed to relieve, lowering herself onto a beanbag.

“It’s hard to know where to start.” He began, fixing his dark eyes on a singular space in front of him, “Look, I know I’ve been a bit off the radar since, you know, I told you about how I felt. I think, well, I _know_ I have some things to work through for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

His knee bounced up and down, leg balancing on the balls of his feet, “I mean, I see you and I want to just rewind everything. Go back to how it was before.”

She took an inward breath, sensing she knew exactly where this was heading, “But you can’t.” She sought clarification, despite knowing she didn’t need it.

“No. I can’t.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, elbows resting over his thighs, “I want to say we’re friends before anything else, Clarke, and I want to mean it when I say it. I swear to god.” He paused, frustration disrupting his expression, “But I know it would turn me inside out to see you with somebody else. I can’t keep how I feel silent, but I can’t put that pressure on you to stop yourself from being happy with somebody else just because of me.”

“Wells, I’m not in the right place for dating _anybody_.” She murmured, her chest tightening, “I’m not sure that I ever will be.”

“You don’t know that. You will probably move on, one day.”

Clarke avoided stating that it wasn’t a case of ‘moving on’, but that would mean he’d expect an explanation. Maybe he deserved an explanation, but she couldn’t give it to him. Talking about it to anybody would first require a safe space, and she didn’t feel safe. Not right then. Not when she could see Wells falling apart before her.

“Listen, Wells, I’m not going to stop you from making whatever choice you feel is right for you, okay? If you need time away from me, then I respect that. It hurts and I won’t act like it doesn’t, but I won’t make it harder for you than it already is.”

He looked at her, finally. It was torturous and impossible to pretend otherwise.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t keep hurting myself either.”

“I know.”

He looked angry, for just a moment, reminding Clarke of the sculpture she had created of him all those weeks ago, “I’m sorry for fucking this up. I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

She tried to tell him it was okay, but she couldn’t and it wasn’t.

“I love you, Clarke, but I love you too much. I hope one day I can move past this and, if I do, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.” He stood up, looking as if he might apologise again, but decided against it, “I don’t mind you talking to Octavia and Raven about it. I get you will need someone to talk to about this, but I’d rather they give me a few days before they bring it up with me. Is that alright?”

She inclined her head, “Of course.” It felt strange not to reach out and embrace him, but the air between them was so fragile that to disturb it would destroy the only dignity either of them had left. He left without a verbal goodbye, tearing his eyes away from hers and exiting the workshop with heavy footsteps. She stood, feeling the seconds drain away, each one leaving her emptier than the one before it. The numbness crept over her skin like a weak anaesthetic, but pins and needles still somehow bubbled beneath the surface. She couldn’t even begin to process what she felt, or even what she _should_ be feeling. All she knew was that they had been close friends for years, even though Wells had lived in the UK and Clarke in America. The seas hadn’t been able to stop them, but now a force far greater than the tides wedged its way between them. He walked away because he loved her and, because she loved him back, she had let him. How could love manifest itself in so many different ways and reap so many different desires?

Pushing a hand shakily through her hair, Clarke Griffin stared at the mess around one more time, wondering how the hell she was going to tidy any of it now. She was interrupted by a sturdy knock at the door, one that horrified her to the core.

“ _Shit._ ” To cool down, she unbuttoned a couple of fasteners on her shirt, shouting, “Just a minute!” Her voice was hoarse, sounding distant to even her own ears. She was only just trying to figure out what to say when she opened the door, but all she managed to utter was a quiet apology.

Lexa looked at her, cool green eyes steady and unblinking, a natural calm radiating gently from her body without her having to speak a single word. She didn’t step into the room immediately, sensing perhaps she had caught Clarke at a difficult time.

“I haven’t gotten around to tidying up after the session, yet. So, it’s all still a bit of a shit-tip.” She gestured broadly behind her to the collection of chairs and easels left in the centre space.

Lexa nodded, allowing Clarke the time and the space she needed to regulate her system for a few moments. Once she felt it was the right time to speak, her lips parted, “Do you need to be alone, Clarke?”

Resting a hand on the doorframe, Clarke exhaled slowly, “Honestly, I don’t know. Am I giving off that impression?”

“Maybe.”

Clarke groaned softly, “Sorry. I just had an unexpected visit, that’s all. I don’t really know what to do with myself right now.”

Knowingly, Lexa tilted her head forwards, “Look, how about I suggest some options and you let me know which one sounds best? Okay?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, worrying at her lower lip, “Yeah, okay.”

“Option one,” Lexa began, voice mellow and soothing, “We reschedule. Option two, I pour us a drink of whiskey. Option three, we reschedule and you get to keep the whiskey.”

She turned the options over in her mind, eyes flickering cautiously to the young woman before her, “You brought whiskey?”

“And a mixer on the off-chance you don’t like it straight. You can keep both, if you like.”

Clarke hesitated, subconsciously studying Lexa’s features. She had this uncanny ability to control her presence and its intensity. When she wanted to be noticed, she simply had to flip a switch and she could absorb the attention of an entire stadium. She was so powerful, so seen, so extant. Yet, now, she kept herself veiled, faded. It was comforting, almost, how she existed without imposition. Clarke knew the smart thing to do would be to dismiss her and sort out the sorry state of her room, and probably her heart, so she could crumble and cry without humiliation.

“Option two, I think.” She said, despite that.

Lexa inclined her head, “All other options remain available at all times.”

Clarke reminded herself this person had seen her doubled up in foetal position in a store cupboard and had barely even blinked. She was no stranger to her anguish. Besides, really, the distraction would probably help. Clarke didn’t explain herself, and nor did she need to, whilst the violinist went to the tea trolley to unpack the alcohol she had brought. She prepared a drink for them both, leaving one for Clarke on her workbench, watching her quietly as she cleared the room.

“So,” The artist glanced over to the still-frame standing soundlessly at the far end of the room, walking over to the workbench to take a sip of the whiskey, “I’m assuming you didn’t just come here to get me drunk. Although,” she glanced to the dark, sparkling liquid with raised eyebrows, “I am not opposed to getting drunk on this. It’s fiery, isn’t it?”

“You like it, then?” Lexa almost looked proud of herself at Clarke’s confirmation.

“Yes. I do.”

“Your sculptures.” She gestured to the place where Clarke kept her wooden carvings, although they were currently all concealed with white linen, “You’re good with wood?”

An unexpected smile crossed the artist’s lips and she raised an eyebrow, “I guess not good enough to have it as my namesake as some do, but I’ve never had any complaints.”

She assumed Lexa would grimace, for a multitude of reasons, but she didn’t. In fact, a tilt of amusement betrayed her mouth, but she quickly covered it up with a sip of her undiluted whiskey. She lowered the glass to the tea trolley and removed a black case strapped to her back, crouching down to lay it at her own feet. Her fingers tugged open the zip and she pushed back the lid to reveal a battered looking violin, “Believe it or not, this was once considered a very valuable instrument.”

“Wait, so, you think I’ll be able to help restore it, or something?”

Lexa shrugged, gaze sliding to meet Clarke’s across the space between them, “I don’t see what we’d have to lose.”

“You know what I think?”

Lexa waited.

“I think you miss having a project to work on with me.” She managed a smug smile, hoping to use humour to push aside the numbness in her chest.

Lexa simply shrugged, “Maybe.”

“Okay.” Clarke cleared her throat, patting the surface of her workbench, “Bring it over here.”

Lexa did as she requested and picked the violin up by the neck, carrying it over to lay down before her.

“How valuable was it?” She asked, dubiously sizing up the sorry state of the instrument.

“I can’t really put a price on it right now because numbers are different now to what they were.”

Clarke leaned forward to examine the violin, noting the absence of some vital parts, ones that could probably be replaced, such as the chin rest, strings, bridge and tuning pegs. The body itself, although scratched and chipped, wasn’t quite as bad as she initially thought. The imperfections were mostly magnified due to the dirt and dust they were caked in.

“Okay, full disclosure, I would have no idea what I was doing. Beyond the woodwork and the structure of violins, I know very little. So, please don’t be disappointed if I can’t fix this.”

Lexa moved to stand by her, resting a hand atop the workbench as she leaned forwards to look at the violin again, “I won’t be disappointed. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything with it right now, or at all. I appreciate it’s a lot to ask and I’m not sure it’s even salvageable.” She glanced upwards, meeting her gaze, “Hopefully, I can fill in any gaps in your knowledge about violins, though.”

Clarke nodded, aware that Lexa’s hip was almost brushing her own, “Do you have any cleaning products for it?”

Silently, she moved away from the bench and went to retrieve a small bottle of liquid and a soft cloth from the violin case, placing it beside the instrument on her return. Clarke took a breath.

“To see what we’re working with, we need to give this old man a clean-up, first.”

“Old man?”

“You disagree?”

Lexa arched an eyebrow, “I suppose I hadn’t gotten around to assigning it an age or gender quite yet.”

“What about a personality?”

“Stubborn, I think.” She observed, watching Clarke tip the liquid onto the cloth and start to gently clean the main body of the violin.

“You’re definitely not wrong about that.” The artist focused on the dirt gathering in a crack along the left side, eyes narrowing, “Where was this stored? Under a bed, or something?”

“Actually, yes, for about 20 years.”

“I thought so. The crack here,” Clarke ran her finger along the grain, “you probably know already, but this sort of thing occurs if the room it’s stored in isn’t humid enough. It’s the sort of damage sustained when wood is kept in one place for too long like in a loft, or under a bed. Some of the other chips look to be caused by usual wear and tear. They should be easy enough to spruce up, but the temperature and humidity damage will prove to be far more of a challenge.”

Lexa listened with increasing interest, eyes following the movements of Clarke’s hands as she finished cleaning. She touched the instrument with such care and such respect that one would have expected her to be a violinist herself.

“I have to know, though, why haven’t you taken it to a luthier?”

The violinist tilted her head to glance at Clarke, “If you think there’s anything repairable about it, I probably will do, but I’d rather know your thoughts on the woodwork first.”

She nodded, meeting Lexa’s gaze, the numbness in her chest starting to subside, “Well, it would certainly need a lot of work and I’m not sure I would be able to restore it back to full health, as it were.” She returned her attention to the instrument, a small smile on her mouth, “But there is something of a charm about it, isn’t there?”

“There is.”

Clarke looked up once more, “This instrument means something to you.”

“It does.”

She took the cloth once more so she could wipe the fingerboard, “Tell me.”

First, she topped them both up with more whiskey, swallowing a mouthful as she leaned against the edge of the bench, “It belonged to my mother.” She said eventually, “Her grandfather passed it down to her before he died. He was a violinist too. She always intended to get it restored, but she never got around to it.”

Clarke listened, placing down the cloth and reaching for her glass to take a drink, “How come?”

“I kept her busy.” Lexa answered, “She still played her own violin from time to time, but she was a young single mother who had other things to dedicate her funds to. Then, when she got sick, she stopped playing altogether. Ever since she died, I planned to get the instrument restored when I could.”

The artist stopped what she was doing and angled her body towards the brunette. Her automatic response might have been to apologise; it was the sort of thing people said when they found out somebody else had experienced a particularly difficult life event. She stopped herself.

“How old were you?” She asked, instead.

“13.”

Clarke paused, absorbing the information thoughtfully, before she spoke with an air of reverence, “I’m humbled that you trust me with this, Lexa.”

Lexa had another swig of her whiskey, shrugging one shoulder, “I’ve seen what you can do with your hands.”

The sentence alone prompted a shiver to creep down her spine, and when pale green eyes drifted to meet hers, she could hardly breathe. She felt the weakness in her joints, in her chest. Something passed over Lexa’s stare and it was infuriating not to know what it meant. In attempt to ignore the burdening weight of such a sensation, Clarke broke away, pushing herself off the bench to wipe her palms on her jeans, “I only hope I can do your expectations justice.”

Lexa was watching her, still. It wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, when she looked away, Clarke craved to feel the heat once more. Even if it was just for a moment. The numbness Wells left her with was subsiding and she couldn’t bear the thought of it returning. She had been deprived of feeling good for weeks. It was just surprising that it was Lexa who had reached her.

Or, at least, she tried to convince herself that it was a surprise.

In reality, it had been Lexa to reach her every single time.

“It’s maple, I think, the wood on the back.” Clarke observed, resting the violin on its side so they could see both the front and back of the body.

“The wood is different on the front?”

She nodded, “I believe it’s spruce on the front. I have plenty of both in stock. I should have some wood filler and glue in, too. Do you have a timescale for when you want this to be done?”

Lexa shook her head, “Just as long as it takes.”

Clarke suppressed an amused smile at her response. It was exactly the sort of answer to be expected of her; she had the patience of a guru.

“There’s no need to get started on it right away. I understand you’ve probably had a stressful day.” The brunette added, resting one hand atop the workbench.

The artist gave a dismissive wave of her hand, “Well, I’ll at least get all the equipment together. I’ll need to wait for the cleaning product to dry on the wood, anyway.”

Lexa allowed Clarke to whip around her workshop, gathering the tools and products she would require to get started on the repair, “Will you write me a list of all the things you used? I would like to replace them once we’ve finished.”

The blonde considered turning down the request with a nonchalant roll of her eyes, but caught the sincerity in Lexa’s expression. Instead of trying to diminish the value of money or its significance to her, Clarke caught herself and nodded, slowly, “Sure. Deal.”

It was a few minutes before either of them spoke again. They were each occupied with their own thoughts, content to exist in the same vicinity as the other, just without interaction. Once Clarke had finished finding all the equipment and writing down the names and brands of each resource on a sheet of paper, she glanced over to the sofa with a sigh, “Another drink?” She suggested, the tiredness starting to set in her limbs.

Lexa complied, topping their glasses up once more, following her over to the seat. They sat, side by side, the silence more tangible now than it was before. It could have been their steady breathing. Perhaps it was the proximity of their thighs. 

“So, you brought whiskey, then. Is that the only way you can tolerate me?” Clarke sought distraction in her own voice when nothing else sufficed, but it sounded low; unsteady, even.

Lexa glanced dubiously at the contents of her glass. If she’d noticed the underlying shake to Clarke’s tone, she didn’t mention it. “I’m not sure whiskey would be enough for that.”

“No? Would absinthe be a more appropriate option?” She glanced delicately over her shoulder, fighting the urge to nudge her arm. She would have had it been anybody else sat beside her.

“Perhaps for you to tolerate me.”

“Well, you’re far more tolerable than you think you are.”

Amusement mingled with surprise and it passed over Lexa’s mouth in an intoxicating smile, “If you had heard yourself say that a few months ago, I think you would have passed out.”

“That’s because you weren’t tolerable back then.” Clarke rested her empty glass in her lap, instigating a challenge with a quirk of her eyebrow. Yet, Lexa did not rise to it. She chose her battles with confidence and without qualm. It was a skill Clarke had yet to master. She still saw every encounter as an opportunity.

“No, perhaps not.” She agreed, raising the whiskey bottle, “More?”

Clarke conceded and nodded, allowing Lexa to refill her receptacle. By this point, she was curious to try the liquid straight and shook her head when Lexa offered to fetch the mixer from the fridge. It was probably about as good an idea as asking the question that followed, “Why did you change your mind?”

“About?” She sipped her drink so elegantly, so relaxed. Her spine propped against the back of the couch carefully, one leg draped over the other. She was unwound but attentive.

Clarke swallowed, taking her time to answer, although her mind had already cast back to the night of her father’s funeral. She recalled the moment the violinist had spoken to her frankly on the crowded floor of the Orion. She had eluded to Clarke being too much of a distraction to manage. At the time, she wanted to know more; she was desperate for it. Now the words sat on the cliff of her tongue and that was where they stayed.

Lexa waited.

“About me.” Her voice was dry, “You, you said you thought I’d be a distraction.”

“And I was right. You are.” She let Clarke witness the deliberate curve of her lips, the teasing flicker behind pale green eyes, before she continued, “But not all distractions are bad, Clarke.”

Her nerves were ablaze. There was no numbness there anymore. Only fire.

“Is this you saying you like being around me?”

Lexa observed her for almost too long before she shrugged, unblinking, “Yes.”

Maybe she should have asked Lexa outright about what this bizarre chemistry was they shared. What was it that pulled them to the other? She wanted answers, and yet she was afraid of what they would be. She wavered, the queries surging to her teeth, mouth parting as she readied herself for it.

Then, her phone vibrated harshly against her thigh.

“Shit.” Clarke gasped in furious relief, “Sorry. Fuck.”

Lexa was as collected as always and she tilted her head to one side, watching the artist as she stood to press her phone to her ear. Beneath the glacial cool lay something just as heated as the flames running through Clarke’s veins. It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Hi, Mama.” She dragged her eyes away from the violinist, something that required far more discipline than she felt she possessed. She conversed for a short while with her mother about business, neither of them really touching on the subject of Jake or the void he had left in their lives. Clarke assured Abby she was doing just fine managing all the conferences and other “boring” meetings she was required to attend. She had to be a little more forceful about her assurances, however, occasionally rolling her eyes and pulling the phone away from her ear so she could let out a sigh. She knew it was Abby’s way of checking in with Clarke without actually having to bring up uncomfortable emotions about their respective grief. One day, they would talk about it, but not yet. There were a lot of feelings the Griffins had yet to come to terms with.

“ _What are you doing now, then? Are you still working?_ ”

“Sort of.” Clarke replied, eyes subtly sliding over to Lexa’s, “Just working on a side project.”

Abby evidently wanted to know more and asked all of the questions that would corner Clarke into giving more detail.

“Bit of woodwork on a violin of Lexa’s, that’s all.”

She made no effort to conceal her surprise, “ _Oh? That’s a little out of your comfort zone, isn’t it? What about John’s exhibition? Have you finished that? Will you send me pictures?_ ”

“Yes, yes. Later.” Clarke tried quickly to wrap up the conversation, “I have to go, anyway. Just, just look after yourself, okay? Come visit soon.”

“ _I will. I miss you, baby, and Madi does, too. We’ll both see you soon._ ”

“Well, it won’t be long before Madi comes over to Arcadia, will it?”

There was a short paused before Abby filled the quiet, “ _Nothing’s been decided yet, Clarke._ ”

“What do you mean? She’s still coming, isn’t she?”

“ _Look, we’ll talk about it another time._ ”

Clarke wanted to ask one or two more demanding questions, but held her tongue with the knowledge that Lexa was still sitting soundlessly a few metres away. Instead, she tried a more amiable approach, “Is she having second thoughts, or are you?”

Abby hesitated.

“I’d appreciate honesty, Mom.”

“ _I can’t get into it right now, Clarke, but more thought needs putting into it. It’s a big step._ ”

Sensing the underlying stress to her mother’s tone, she made the decision to back off, “Okay. Okay, another time, but please don’t shield things from me, alright?”

“ _I won’t._ ”

They ended the phone call after exchanging goodbyes, and the energy Clarke had felt in her chest had mostly dissolved, the exhaustion setting in its place.

“I ought to get going.” Lexa rose to her feet, “I’ll leave the whiskey for next time.”

“When will that be?” Her voice was soft, undemanding but wanting.

The brunette pulled her hair around one side of her neck, eyes resting comfortably on Clarke’s, “Whenever you like.”

“Tomorrow is an admin day for me. Day after?”

Just when she thought that her body was beyond feeling the confusing friction burn of her heart against her sternum, Clarke felt it again. It was right at the moment that the corners of Lexa’s lips quirked upwards, right at the moment green eyes flickered to her mouth, for only a second, “It would be a pleasure.”

The use of such a word did nothing to soothe the profound punch of her pulse.

The moment Lexa left, following a farewell, Clarke’s lungs deflated, eyes pressing closed. She couldn’t understand it. Any of it. She knew, physiologically, what exactly was happening to her body. She just didn’t know _why_. Of course, aesthetically speaking, Lexa was attractive. From an artist’s perspective, she was not only pleasing to behold, but captivating. Clarke had known this from the beginning and she was not one to fall victim to simple external beauty. Not anymore. So, why was it that her body had taken to responding to the proximity of their skins? Why was it that her blood surged through her veins when Lexa merely glanced at her?

Why was it that she felt her cheeks flush at the very thought of her?

Clarke concluded that it was probably because of the intensity of their interactions from the very start; from open dislike to unlikely allies. Perhaps it was embarrassment or stubbornness that had introduced such discomfort in her own skin. Embarrassment because Clarke had shared things with Lexa she hadn’t shared with her closest friends. Stubbornness because she refused to admit that somebody so easy to despise was, in fact, rewarding to like.

Clarke locked up and headed back to her accommodation, thoughts preoccupied and muscles tired.

She decided she would sleep on it.

Sleep was often a successful way to get the body and the mind to reset themselves (or an excellent tool of procrastination, failing that).

With any luck, that would be all she needed.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Lexa had always known how to compose herself, how to dictate her demeanour to the rest of the world. Since Alexandra Woods had passed, she’d been faced with a quick path to maturity. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel things, because she did. Deeply. Her mother had taught her how to exhibit her passions and sorrows; through music, through dedication. Her aunt had taught her how to hide them; through distance, through coldness. Alie had about as much maternal instinct in her as a cuckoo bird. It wasn’t that she didn’t ensure Lexa was cared for in the detached sense of the word, but she openly disparaged affection and visible responses to emotion. Part of Lexa feared that the people she met would be like her aunt. Another part of her feared she herself would become like her aunt. With this in mind, Lexa had always been careful about who she allowed to see her vulnerabilities.

With thousands of eyes on her, Lexa could control everything down to the smallest muscles in her body.

With Clarke’s eyes on her, she couldn’t.

She forgot herself.

As soon as the realisation had struck, she knew it was time to exit. There was honest fragility between them, the sort that could ease them closer together, or push them further apart. At that moment, neither Lexa nor Clarke really knew which of the two they wanted. It wasn’t just about the way Clarke’s stray locks of hair fell about her neck, or the way her smile had the ability to draw others in, or even about the pleasant curves of her body. Of course, none of those things had gone unnoticed by Lexa, but they weren’t the sole reasons for her internal unrest.

It was because Clarke was everything that she hoped her not to be. Kind, warm, magnetic. Pure. She appealed to the parts of Lexa that had remained untouched for some years. Something else had happened that day. There was a connection beyond what they’d already acknowledged. To assume Clarke had felt it too could have led to something disastrous, but Lexa had seen the fire in her eyes. She had felt her heat. Her burning curiosity. She had seen the way her blood blossomed beneath her skin.

Even a glimpse into such sensations, such thoughts, would ordinarily force Lexa to shut down. There was just something about Clarke that was liberating. That, in itself, was dangerous. She knew she ought to have heeded the warning signs and stuck to them from the very beginning, as was her plan, but she had denied herself of meaningful connections with others for some time. Conflicted, Lexa locked her apartment up behind her, preparing herself for rest.

Perhaps, she thought, Clarke could be a little more than an ally after all. To explore this side of possibility would be risky, as already considered. As measured as Lexa could be, she could not control everything, as much as she would have liked to. So much could go wrong, but then, maybe that was why she was so drawn to Clarke because she was a person who refused resolutely to be controlled by anything or anyone.

It would take all Lexa had not to drop to her knees before her. Not just because Clarke was a leader, but because she was a commander, too.


	13. Chapter 12 - Little Cocktail Umbrellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all of your wonderful messages. I particularly enjoyed this chapter for an array of reasons so I'm excited for you all to read it. Let me know your thoughts.
> 
> xox

It had all felt too comfortable, too weightless. The conflict she felt within herself would always be present or, at least, it always had been. It had been planted within her from the moment she chose her career over connection. She could feel it still as she watched practiced hands finalise their adept work. It had been some hours, a couple of which were barely broken by a word, only the soft sipping of whiskey and the quiet tap of wood against wood. In those silent moments, the conflict could be recalled. Then, when her eyes shifted in their slow and balanced manoeuvres, the conflict could be forgotten.

“Play for me.”

Lexa blinked, transitioning back into the immediate present. Clarke was looking at her expectantly, hip pressed against the workbench. She swallowed.

“Play it for me.” The blonde nodded to the violin laying perfectly still on its side.

“It’s ready, you mean?”

She nodded, “Yeah. I’ve been working on it in my spare time.”

“I thought yesterday was an admin day.”

With a gentle shrug, Clarke pushed back from the worktop and rested a hand in her jeans pocket, “It was. Standard 9 to 5. Well,” her hand wavered with deliberate uncertainty, “8 until 6, at least, but I brought my laptop here so I could do bits between. Plus, I was here early this morning. Anyway, all the filler is dried.”

“So, it’s fixed?”

“He will need regular trips to the Doctor, which is me, to check up on the condition of the wood, and definitely a trip to a luthier to check the sound-posts, but honestly, he wasn’t as battered as he looked. He won’t ever be what it was once, but he’s certainly perked up since his operation.”

Lexa gingerly made her way over to look at the instrument as it lay proudly before her, barely able to accept that it had been as quick to repair as Clarke had said, but she was starting to know those hands. She had seen them craft before and that was why she had taken the violin to her in the first place.

“But you’ve put strings on, and tuning pegs.” Lexa was having difficulty accepting that the work truly was complete.

Clarke tilted her head to one side, “Yeah. I made the pegs. They’re just basic. Of course, they will most likely need replacing. I added them so you could see what he looks like all done up. Also, I didn’t know what strings you preferred, so I just got the ones in the fanciest packet.”

Finding the words to say was a challenge. More so because Clarke had not only done everything that Lexa could have hoped her to do, but she had gone above and beyond hopes, too. The pegs were well-crafted, she could tell. It couldn’t have been easy, especially without any sort of training or tutoring beforehand. That, as well as the limited amount of time she’d had. There was clearly a great deal more to this young woman than she let people see, and what people saw already was something incredible. She behaved in a way that suggested she had done this on a daily basis for years.

Lexa almost didn’t dare reach out to touch the body of the violin.

“You alright?”

The violinist turned to meet blue, aware that her expression was utterly unguarded. She knew Clarke had noticed by the way her stare turned inquisitive, searching.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

Clarke knew that already. She said nothing.

“I didn’t bring a bow with me.”

“Pity.” She started tidying up the bench, clearing away the shavings and organising her tools.

Lexa rested her fingertips atop the wooden surface, “Maybe you might like to come by the Soundhouse.”

“Maybe I might.” Clarke glanced over her shoulder, allowing her a glimpse of a teasing smile, “When?”

Lexa carefully picked up the violin, examining it as though it might break, before she sought out the case that she’d brought it in, “What are your plans right now?”

“I’m not sure. I was thinking of going to a violin concert.” The artist had evidently finished what she was busy doing and had made the decision to fix her attention intently on the brunette, the mischief still playing behind her eyes.

“Oh?” Lexa wasted no time responding to the sultry husk in her tone, catching on to the humour immediately, “Alone, or…?”

“Why, do you want to come with, or something?”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugged, noncommittally, “Violin isn’t really my thing.”

Clarke gave a knowing nod of her head, “Ah. Well, when you come to this concert, I can assure you that it will be.”

There was a brief pause, the upward turn of Lexa’s lips betraying her mood, “Alright. I’ll trust your judgement.”

“It’s a good call.”

The walk to the Soundhouse was a quiet one. Clarke had learned early on in their acquaintance that the violinist wasn’t one to entertain small talk, and Lexa had been grateful for the understanding. For her, companionable silence was the hallmark of a comfortable friendship. Of course, Clarke was the sort to be able to chat amiably in any situation and draw out words from even the most laconic of individuals. It was telling, though. Lexa realised Clarke wasn’t one to talk for her own benefit; not really. Clearly, she was content with quiet, too. She didn’t need to fill any voids.

They entered the vast black building, Lexa leading Clarke, the latter of whom actually knowing exactly where they were going, to her favoured practice room. It was undoubtedly a stark contrast to the artist’s workshop. It felt cold in comparison. At least, it did to Lexa.

Clarke stepped inside, eyes running over the untarnished space before them from the smoothly burnished wood of the grand piano to the wall of elongated mirrors. Strangely, despite the artful disarray of her current appearance, she really quite suited the room. Or, rather, the room suited her. She crossed the floor with ease, lowering herself onto the sleek leather chair by the cool artificial lighting. It fell on her skin, illuminating every shade of blue in her eyes.

Lexa rested her violin case on the floor, carefully picking up the repaired violin in her hand. She sat down at the piano to tune up the strings, impressed for two reasons. One, that Clarke had correctly tuned the violin up (although, considering her latest display of talents, it was the least surprising reason). Two, that the strings had barely slipped more than a semi-tone out of tune. Her precision, it seemed, was thus far unrivalled.

“What are you going to play for me?” Her voice was low, encouraging.

“What would you like me to play?” Lexa rested the violin on the stool, heading over to the cupboard to select a spare bow. She tightened it up, bouncing the hairs on the back of her hand to check the suspension.

“Something of yours.”

Lexa faltered. She didn’t have a piece perfected just yet.

“Is that so you can read me, Clarke?” She’d initially intended to ask the question with soft humour, hoping to conceal her uncertainty, but the weakness in her jaw betrayed her.

“No. It’s so you can speak to me.”

Lexa pressed her lips together, finding herself subject to the intelligent stare once more. She had been here before with Clarke, numerous times. Then again, their positions were reversing constantly. On this occasion, Lexa had surrendered her control.

Or, perhaps, Clarke had simply taken it.

She must have sensed the hesitancy, so she adjusted herself on the chair, hands resting gently in her lap, “It’s okay if you don’t have one ready. Play me anything you’re comfortable with.”

The violinist had performed in front of thousands without revealing the smallest tremor. Yet, now, she felt the doubt wash over her like a surging current. She couldn’t place why. Perhaps it was almost like performing in front of Jake Griffin himself.

She raised the violin upwards, placing her jaw on the chin rest, supporting the instrument with her shoulder. The second she held the bow to the strings, she could feel the power return to her fingertips, everything in her immediate proximity falling back under her command. The air calmed, the walls listened, and Clarke stilled. As Lexa tested out the unfamiliar sounds, she could feel the violin slowly submit to her control. Truly, it was a stubborn instrument, after all. Once she tended to the parts of it that longed to be heard, the violin allowed itself to become an extension of her body. Despite the stubbornness, she could feel the rich omnipotence. To have such an instrument as an ally would prove to be a powerful experience, indeed.

After warming up, she faded into a piece she knew the violin would suit. The melody was longing, desperate almost. She treated each note with respect, with devotion. After a short while, she forgot everything around her, letting the music carry her beyond the confines of the room. It was more than just a recital, more than a performance.

As she closed the composition, she lowered her violin, recalling the sensation of having Clarke’s profound gaze focusing on her. For a moment, the two of them existed in a void. It was binding and liberating all at once. Neither spoke. Not for some time.

Overcome, Clarke pushed her hand through her hair, shakily.

It was more than just the music.

The violin held a deep significance for Lexa. To play it for the very first time was a powerful moment in itself. To play the composition she did only furthered the pressure against her ribcage. Then, to subject herself to those sensations, those weaknesses, in the presence of Clarke Griffin was deeply exposing. Yet, judging by the hazy light in her eyes, by the slack muscles in her jaw, Clarke felt the compelling intimacy, too.

The moment was sacred, but Lexa took it away not long after she’d created it. She placed down the violin some seconds later, strapping it back into the case. Once she’d loosened the bow and shut it away in the store cupboard, she managed to take a breath and speak, “I think we may struggle to find something you can’t do, Clarke.”

She didn’t speak, and when Lexa turned, she saw that the artist was too moved to do so.

“Are you alright?”

Clarke blinked, snapping free of the stupor she’d landed herself in and inclined her head, “I – yes.” She cleared her throat, “It’s just, you know, _that_ was…”

“Did I speak to you the way you expected me to?” Lexa asked, concealing the heightened curiosity at this new side to Clarke. Ordinarily, she was sharp with her tongue and smooth with her smile. It was a rare occasion to catch her speechless. Perhaps she was just as exposed as Lexa had felt.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she said honestly, once she had managed to grasp some structure to her words, “but nothing could have prepared me for that.”

The violinist watched her, eyes steady, hoping for some further explanation.

“There was loss.” She murmured, eventually, “Some desperation, I think. A sense of sacrifice. But with that, strength. Determination. Fierceness.”

“Perhaps you are interpreting the music subjectively.” She indicated, knowing full well that Clarke was no stranger to those states of being, and automatically attempting to shield herself through deflection.

“You disagree, then?”

Lexa shrugged lightly, looking away, “I’m not sure, truthfully, what the piece was about.”

“It wasn’t one of yours?”

“No. One of my mother’s.”

Clarke nodded, “Well,” she began, standing up and taking a step closer, “the music is beautiful. Astounding, really. But I didn’t just get that from hearing you. I got it from watching you.”

She turned then, catching Clarke’s steady stare once more, “Watching me?”

“Yes.”

This time, she didn’t elaborate, but waited for Lexa to make the next move. The tightness of the air between them was palpable, but variable.

“How?” The violinist’s voice was soft and imploring, but almost afraid. Afraid of how easily Clarke could peel her apart. How easily she’d already done so in the past.

“I’m an artist, not a musician, Lexa.” She shrugged, “I’ve told you before, I read _people_. The best time to do that is when they’re unguarded.”

“And you believe I was telling you all of those things?”

Clarke bit her lip, “Did you feel any of those things?”

Lexa considered this carefully. Clarke had the ability to draw information from her lips that she would’ve ordinarily kept locked away, as though such discussions were normal. Speaking so openly about intense emotions wasn’t something she was usually comfortable with. Perhaps that was why she played the way she did; why she excelled. People wanted to gain something from music, to feel something that words could not describe or express. Clarke merely studied somebody for a few hours and picked out their vulnerabilities, their strengths, and dashed them all on a canvas for the world to see.

“I’m sorry, I’m being intrusive.” The tightness between them eased as Clarke dropped back to sit on the piano stool, looking a little embarrassed, “I think, I see art wherever I turn and I can get swept away with it if I’m not careful.”

Knowing that she was speaking with the daughter of Jake Griffin, such a revelation did not come as a shock.

“No, it’s okay.” Lexa clasped her hands behind her back, “I think I did feel some of those things when I played just now. Loss, because of my mother. A determination to live up to the standards she had of me. I have certainly sacrificed a great deal and I often think on the things I’ve lost because of it, and…”

She stopped herself. She could only just admit to herself a sense of desperation, although that was barely something that she could begin to unfold for the first time in front of the person who was responsible for evoking such a feeling in the first place. 

Clarke swung one leg over the piano stool so she was straddling it, “Do you play?” She asked, her fingers running over the polished fall board that concealed the keyboard.

“Do _you_?” Lexa returned, eager to reveal more of her talents as it seemed there were many more that she possessed.

“Me? No. Not at all. Well, my dad taught me when I was a kid, but I never stuck to it beyond my teenage years. I can strum a few chords on the guitar, but that’s about the extent of it.” She shifted, making space on the stool for the two of them, patting the leather with a coaxing smile on her lips. The sort that was becoming harder and harder to refuse, “Come, play.”

Lexa complied. Clarke had turned now with both legs settled under the piano so when the brunette lowered herself onto the seat, their hips were almost touching. She raised the fall board, long fingers hesitant on the keys, “I’m only average, just so you know.”

“No.” Clarke angled her face towards her, “You’re far from it.”

Heat crept along the bumps of her spine, not just at the words, but at the way Clarke spoke them. She was soft and sincere and her body was so close. It was maddening; maddening because Lexa had devoted the entirety of their acquaintance to ignoring the inescapable pull she felt towards Clarke. Yet, every choice she made from the moment they had met only made the sensation harder to disregard. She pushed the keys down, hands gracing over the notes as she drew out a light, but soothing, melody from beneath the soundboard. She didn’t play anything in particular; a series of broken chords and simple tunes, but the music flowed flawlessly, anyway.

“Would you, I mean, do you think you’ll sing again?” Lexa asked, still carrying a gentle sequence with her hands. She felt Clarke still, felt the muscles in her limbs tense.

“I don’t know. The last time I sung was to my dad while he passed away.” She didn’t say it to beg sympathies or pity. She said it calmly, still processing the possibilities of singing again. Lexa said nothing, deciding not to push it. Once Clarke had released her lip, she glanced to her, capturing the focus of pale green eyes, “I don’t think I’d ever sing to make money, but I could sing for you.”

Lexa’s eyebrows rose, slightly. She had heard Clarke’s voice once at the Battle of the Bands event, and had hungered to hear it again ever since.

“You know, for friends. People I trust.”

Lexa’s fingers paused on the keys, “You trust me?”

Clarke blinked, as though the question had shocked her, “Yes, why wouldn’t I?”

She shook her head, glancing away briefly, “I, I don’t know. I suppose I thought…” But she couldn’t articulate exactly what it was she thought.

“You’ve given me no reason not to. You know, Lexa, it isn’t easy for me to trust people and I know for a fact it isn’t easy for you, either. I think, though, I think that we are similar in some ways.”

At this, Lexa paused. Perhaps she was right to a degree. Anya had likened the two of them to the other before and, in a manner of speaking, Lexa was more than familiar with the determination and the dedication in Clarke’s fiery stare.

“I feel like those who _don’t_ have trust issues nowadays are in the minority.” Lexa had intended it as a statement to take the edge away from the intensity growing between them. Fortunately, Clarke released a quiet laugh, demonstrating her agreement. For a moment, the tautness between their bodies was relieved.

“Well, you _should_ be wary of me.” Clarke murmured, the quirk of her brow prompting a flutter in her stomach, thus tightening the space between them once more, “I am out to sabotage your career, after all.”

“I suppose we are similar, then.” She returned, “I’ve scheduled a thief to burgle all of your artwork from your workshop tonight.”

“Oh, I already know. He told me an advance. I bet you weren’t expecting him to be a double agent, were you?”

“Lawks a-mercy.” Lexa had pinned down the English accent to a far better standard than the girl beside her had, “My plans are foiled again.”

When Clarke laughed, the violinist noticed the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, lips turning upwards into an endearing smile. If she had the capability of doing so, Lexa would vow to make her laugh each time they met. At least once. Her grin was infectious and it lightened the weight in her chest.

Once the laughter had tapered away into a slow-burning silence, Clarke glanced down at the ivory keys, “Lexa?”

It made her heart beat, fast. She didn’t speak in case the unsteadiness of her voice betrayed anything unexpected. Instead, she merely shifted her gaze to meet deep azure, finding surety there instead of irresolution, and yet she still could not decipher it.

“I’m wondering what we’ll do now. You know, now we don’t have any more projects to work on.” When the brunette did not answer straight away, the artist hastened to add, “I mean, as much as it pains me to admit it, I like hanging out with you.” She shrugged.

Lexa swallowed before opening her mouth to respond, “Well, it all depends. What would you like us to do, Clarke?”

The faint smirk on Clarke’s lips could have been an illusion, but the heat beneath her skin was not. Lexa could feel it radiating from the blonde’s arm as it brushed her own.

“Raven is throwing a house party this Thursday.”

“What’s that in aid of?”

“Well, by Raven I mean Octavia. Octavia is throwing a party at Raven’s place to celebrate Raven’s brains. She came out with the highest class of degree, which comes as no surprise to anybody, but Octavia loves a reason to party and will throw one if there’s been a minor change in the weather, or something. Saying that, it is quite a significant achievement when it isn’t raining here.” Clarke amended, her tongue seeming to carry away with her, much to Lexa’s quiet amusement, “Maybe you’d like to come.” She managed, sensing the smirk starting to pull on Lexa’s lips.

She knew it would be a mistake to accept Clarke’s invitation for a number of reasons. The main reason, of course, would always come down to the fact that Clarke Griffin was a distraction. An enjoyable one, sure, but a distraction all the same. There _were_ other factors that were not, under any circumstances, to be ignored; Lexa had a recital the day after and was due to submit a composition to be graded and appraised; one she had still not yet completed.

“I don’t know that it will be a good idea.”

To make things even harder, Clarke just nodded, a relaxed smile resting over her mouth. She didn’t put up a fight, which would have made it easier for Lexa to refuse. It was usually easier to argue with Clarke than agree with her.

“Well,” The blonde shrugged, “the offer is there if you decide to take it. Either way, there’s no pressure. If it makes a difference though, I would like to see you there.”

It did make a difference and surely Clarke would know that.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to spend time with you.” Lexa spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clarke studied the expression on her face. Then, after deciding she was satisfied with what she observed, she inclined her head, “No, I know, and I get it. Honestly, despite everything that’s happened, I count myself lucky you’ve given me the time you have already.”

Humbled, Lexa was already shaking her head, “Don’t, Clarke. You, you deserve far more than I could ever…”

When she found herself unable to complete the sentence, a sense of unease slipped over her like an intrusive second skin. Truthfully, she didn’t even know which direction her words had planned on taking her. She only knew that it would have been divulging far more than either of them would have been comfortable with, but then to leave the sentence incomplete, hanging between them like a noose, forced the tension between them into something even more unsettling.

Clarke handled it with grace, as she did with everything, and lightly squeezed Lexa’s hand. It was meant with platonic intent, she knew, but the warmth of her hand as it covered hers was overbearing. She wanted to break the contact. She wanted to retract herself completely, because it was starting to place some difficult truths into perspective. A distorted perspective, but a perspective all the same.

“We can agree to disagree on that matter, Woods.” Clarke removed her hand easily, standing up and stepping away from the piano, “I ought to be getting back. I have an early start tomorrow. Then again, such seems to be the case with every morning including weekends, too. Who knew fate could be so unkind as to take away Saturday morning lay-ins?”

Lexa knew she was trying to lighten the mood, and it worked to a degree. She had intended a smile, but it was evident she was too preoccupied to manage one. Instead, she went to fetch her violin case and pulled the straps over her shoulders with care. The walk out of the building was quiet, as was to be expected. When they reached the point of going their separate ways, Lexa fixed her stare onto Clarke’s through the dimly lit courtyard, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Thanks for playing for me.”

Lexa inclined her head, “Goodnight, Clarke.”

The walk back to her accommodation in the late evening air was certainly needed to clear her head. She pushed aside thoughts of Clarke and the confusion that accompanied her and focused instead on the reasons why she was here.

If she was _ever_ to lose sight of why she had crossed the seas to embrace a brand-new life, even for a fleeting moment, she would never forgive herself for it. Yet, for some reason unbeknownst to herself, she continued to walk the line, anyway.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Despite the fact she had been back at her apartment for some time, Clarke still could not seem to catch her breath. She could no longer realistically attribute it to the walk back home. It hadn’t been that tiring, and she had long since been wrapped up in her dressing gown and slippers, sipping a cup of tea in bed as she caught up on her business emails. Yet, her heart still hammered actively against her sternum, her lungs still expanding and deflating faster than usual.

If she was allowing herself to be honest, Clarke could admit the sensation was far from unfamiliar. From the moment she’d presented the violin to Lexa, from the moment pale green eyes had ignited with something rare and passionate, Clarke had lost all ability to regulate her body’s response system. Even during the minutes where she thought she could finally get a grasp on the whole thing, something else would happen and trigger the unbalance in her status quo once again.

It was understandable, she supposed. Tensions had run high from the moment they’d met. The dynamics had been changeable and unpredictable, but the intensity had been constant.

She just didn’t know why. She concluded Lexa must have sensed it in some way, too. She had to. Surely. It was too much for one person to feel alone.

Clarke certainly hadn’t imagined the way green eyes had lingered on her skin, on her lips, especially when she had laughed at something Lexa had said. Saying that, Clarke knew Lexa demonstrated equal intensity in the majority of her interactions with others, too. There wasn’t anything specific that set the artist aside from any of the other connections Lexa made. For all Clarke knew, she could just be another business opportunity. It wasn’t a thought she spent a great deal of time brooding over, but it absolutely couldn’t be ruled out as a possibility, or even a probability. Clarke didn’t know how to interpret any of it. Everything about Lexa remained a mystery. Even after all of this time.

Could she safely say they were more than just acquaintances? She would have hoped Lexa considered her as a friend, or as close to that as she could allow. Yet, those moments, those moments kept resurfacing in the forefront of her mind. The ones where Lexa had looked at her for a second too long, pupils almost dilated. The ones where she had said something utterly unexpected. The ones where she had moved close to Clarke, so close that it had almost driven her senses into chaos.

But maybe, maybe that was just Lexa.

As much as Clarke wanted to understand the whirlwind of emotions surging through her body, she knew that entertaining any farfetched possibilities would be more damaging than helpful. Clarke had meant the things she’d said to Wells before. She wasn’t sure she would ever be in the right place to invite another into the depths of her heart.

Thinking of Wells prompted another uneasy feeling to fill her stomach. She was grateful that the following few days were due to bring forth plenty of distractions. She had meetings to attend, audits to oversee, classes to teach, one-on-one sessions with models and other artists, amongst her own personal projects to work on. It was both unlikely and fortunate that she would find the time to dwell on such thoughts.

Naturally, with Thursday morning came the overwhelming recollection of exhaustion. It had been the first morning in around 10 days where she had been allowed to sleep in past seven o’clock in the morning, and she had classically awoken at half past six. When eight o’ clock arrived smugly and stealthily, it became quite apparent to Clarke that she would _not_ be receiving any more sleep, after all. With a grouchy huff, she forced herself up and out of bed, deciding to take it slow. She treated herself to a lengthy shower, a cooked breakfast, and two cups of coffee.

_Three_ cups of coffee.

She planned on heading over to the Arthouse that afternoon to touch up on a few of her projects and commissions. She would undoubtedly meet Murphy for a cuppa and a catch-up. It would take him a little persuading to attend Raven’s party that evening, but she knew how to work him. The conversation would go something like “party tonight, Murphy?” and he would reply with a noncommittal grunt. She would need only to keep repeating the words “party” and “booze” until he eventually conceded with an overtly reluctant smile.

Worked like a charm.

Come mid-afternoon when Clarke had managed to stain her skin with enough colours to look like a painting herself, Raven and Octavia rocked up in her workshop looking as though they wanted nothing more than to collapse on her floor. Octavia, at least, made it to the sofa. Raven simply dropped onto the closest beanbag to her, bags landing on the floor by her feet.

Clarke removed the paintbrush from between her teeth and glanced over to the new arrivals, “We certainly like to make an entrance, don’t we?”

“Yes, and we come in search of your wisdom.” Octavia announced.

“Well, wisdom is probably a strong word to associate with you.” Raven added, watching Clarke as she waited for a reasonable explanation, dipping her brush into a dollop of paint. “I swear to god you only ever paint naked people.”

The blonde raised an eyebrow, “Well, surprisingly, that could be because it’s one of the areas I specialise in.”

“Pervert.”

She offered a rueful smile, “Yes. Now, what wisdom can I bestow upon the two of you?”

“Maybe you could tell us why the hell Wells has decided to go completely and utterly rogue on us.”

Clarke’s smile faltered.

Octavia exhaled, “We’re getting worried about him, Griffin. He never comes out anymore. He hardly ever texts back. I tried to catch him at the Soundhouse, but he just muttered something about having to get to rehearsals and turned and went in the opposite direction!”

“Like, is he depressed? Has he met somebody? Has Murphy killed him and replaced his body with a robot clone?”

“I asked him to come to the party tonight and he just point blank said ‘no’ without a reason. Have you heard from him, or anything?”

“He told me he was in love with me.” Clarke said the words without giving them much thought, dabbing her brush against the canvas mechanically. There wasn’t really another way to express it. She had turned it over in her mind several times since their conversations had transpired to the point where she had grown rather detached to the notion. It didn’t mean she wasn’t still affected by the fact she’d lost him. She was just tired of torturing herself with it all.

“What?” Both Raven and Octavia exclaimed, heads snapping to stare at their friend in astonishment.

“Yeah. He told me he loved me and I said I didn’t feel the same way. The other day he came over to tell me he was putting some distance between us.” She shrugged, “He didn’t want me to tell you guys about it straight away. He wanted a few days without it being common knowledge.”

“Clarke,” Octavia waved a hand, “just, just hold on a second. Back up. When did he tell you?”

“Couple of weeks or so ago. One night after the Orion.” She sighed, swapping her paintbrush with another, “We were all a bit tipsy and I guess I pushed him to talk about whatever was on his mind. He said to forget about it afterwards, so I didn’t tell anybody because it wouldn’t have been fair on him.”

Raven leaned forwards slightly, “So, then what happened?”

Clarke shrugged, “He turned up here and said he couldn’t continue as things were. He felt loving me hurt him too much so that’s that. I’ve lost one of my best friends because I can’t give him what he wants, or deserves.”

“Yes, but in no way is it your fault he decided to stop talking to you. To all of us. That’s on him. I get he’s hurting but, no offence, we aren’t all the same person. Like, I don’t get why he’s cutting us off too.” Octavia frowned.

“I don’t know. I suppose he needs time to figure stuff out on his own. He knows you guys are close with me and it would probably complicate things for him, you know?”

Raven exhaled, “I mean, we knew this was coming.”

The artist paused, eyes flickering over to her friend, “We did?”

“Yes. That boy has been in love with you forever, Griffin.”

Octavia nodded in thoughtful agreement, “Even so, haven’t you been friends since you were younger?”

She nodded, “Yes. Our fathers have been working together since we were small, so we used to write each other. They’d come over to Tennessee or we’d go to London for family holidays. It was nice knowing I’d have a friend when I started here.”

Sympathetically, Octavia inclined her head, “Mate, I’m sorry. That’s shit.”

“And you’ve never fancied him back?” Raven asked.

She shook her head, “I wish I did. It would have made this entire thing easier. I’ve never thought of him in that way. We used to joke about getting married when we were both old and rejected by society, but I didn’t think it would be this real for him.”

“I mean, you’re not even that great, right?”

“Thanks, Ray. Appreciate that.” Clarke rolled her eyes, managing a small smile anyway, “But yeah, it is shit, and I’m sorry that he’s not talking to you guys either.”

“All your fault, Griff.” Octavia jibed, soon shaking her head afterwards, “Listen, about what you said earlier, it is not your responsibility to lighten this load for Wells. It isn’t your fault you don’t feel the same way about him, okay? I already know all the things you’re thinking, so stop it. Wells is a great guy–”

“–great abs, too–” Raven chimed.

“–but you can’t force your feelings.”

She groaned, giving up on painting altogether, “If only. I mean, if I can’t feel that way about Wells, then will I feel it about anyone ever? Will I want to? I don’t think I’m even capable of it anymore. Something has definitely gone wrong with me somewhere.”

“Don’t even, Griffin. Do _not_ even.” Octavia held up a hand to silence her effectively, “It doesn’t mean you’re defective in any way. I don’t know what your history is with your crazy ex or if he’s responsible for your current thinking pattern, but you’re definitely capable of loving somebody in that way and making it work. That doesn’t mean it should be Wells. It doesn’t have to be anybody if you don’t want it to be.”

Raven stopped offering inappropriate comments and nodded, decisively, “O’s right. Relationships don’t _make_ you complete. They should be a choice and not a stipulation of leading a successful life, or whatever.” 

“Maybe. I just want him to be happy and it sucks that he’s unhappy when he’s around me.”

“It does suck.” Octavia agreed, “It sucks for everyone, but he’s made his decision and at least we know now why he’s gone AWOL.”

Clarke swung her legs around her stool and stood up, starting to tidy away her equipment, “Yes. There’s that. To be honest though, I’m more interested in what’s planned for this evening. Do you have everything you need, or shall we do a last-minute shop?”

“I think we have everything.” Raven shrugged.

“But one last whip-around wouldn’t hurt.” Octavia decided, “I want to see if we can find some of those little cocktail umbrellas.”

“Ah, is that so you can poke out the eyes of unwanted guests?” Clarke asked with a smirk, going to wash her brushes.

“You frighten me sometimes, Griffin.”

“I know. Lincoln going to be there?”

She nodded with a grin, “He is, yeah. He’s bringing a few buddies so there will be plenty of eye-candy for everyone.”

“Does that include Anya for Raven?”

Raven glanced up from her phone with a scoff, “Please, we all know I’m the eye-candy for her.”

Clarke laughed, “One of these days, I swear to god you will actually end up sleeping with her, purely by accident.”

“It won’t be an accident.” Octavia smirked, “That’s just what she’ll tell everyone afterwards.”

Raven didn’t entirely protest, but she did present some new information for her friends instead, “Actually, I might be too occupied with other commitments to accidentally fall into bed with her.”

Clarke stopped drying the bristles of her brushes and raised both eyebrows, “Oh? Who is your other commitment?”

She shrugged off the wide-eyed stare Octavia had pinned on her, “I never kiss and tell.”

“You always kiss and tell, so that means you haven’t kissed yet.” She returned.

“Oh, we have done more than that.”

“Anal?”

“Don’t be crass.”

“That means you have.”

Clarke snorted, “Lord. Right, before I hear something I can’t un-hear, let’s head to the shops, yes? Ray, I expect a full introduction to your new gentleman this evening.”

In agreement, once Clarke’s skin was more or less clean again from the paint, her friends followed her from the workshop, waiting for her to lock up.

The shopping trip itself was more or less a success. Octavia located her umbrellas and Clarke managed to pick up some of her favoured beverages. She also grabbed a bottle of Jameson just in case. Truthfully, there was a part of her that hoped Lexa would show, despite the fact she knew it was unlikely.

Once back at her apartment, she retrieved her phone, switching on the shower to heat it up. She kept her message brief, including Raven’s address in the content, and a quick line reinforcing the invite. Of course, there wasn’t an immediate response. Clarke thought that, if she did reply, she would take the time to think about it first.

The hot water was welcome on her skin, ridding her of the excess paint on her arms and in her hair. Clarke had long since fallen out of the partying lifestyle and she felt a small sense of excitement at the thought of making herself look good for a change. Sure, she was comfortable in baggy t-shirts and skinny jeans with her hair piled up on top of her head. Even when attending conferences, she kept her appearance basic. The one thing she relied on was her ability to capture the attention of those around her without needing to use her looks to do it for her. Certainly, that tactic had its benefits, but it wasn’t her preferred method of making an impression. Tonight, however, Clarke decided she wanted to present herself well. Paint herself as the work of art for a change.

She had ambitious expectations of herself, but she was going to try her damn hardest to meet them. Besides, it would have been good practice before Murphy’s exhibition. That was an event where she wanted to make an impression. People already knew her face now, so there was no point hiding behind her sculptures anymore. She wanted to look the part.

Clarke appraised her appearance in front of the mirror in her bedroom. She usually wore lighter colours, preferring the way they complimented her complexion. Since she hadn’t felt a warm sun in some months, she’d lost her usual glow and found less-vibrant colours suited her a little more than they used to. She’d settled for a burgundy piece, liking the way the shape of it accentuated her chest – a department in which she knew she had been blessed – black skinny jeans, and a leather jacket. It was casual enough for a house party, but a cut above her usual attire. Once satisfied with her makeup, she ruffled her hair carefully and headed out the door.

There were a fair few people already at Raven’s place, the energy building slowly from a chilled vibe to something a little livelier. Clarke was greeted by those in attendance, a drink already being shoved clumsily into her hand by Raven, “Here you go, hot-stuff.”

“Thanks, Ray.” She took a sip of the interesting mix, wondering whether it was a little too early to be experimenting with whatever concoction had been created for her. After concluding it probably wasn’t too poisonous, she reached into her purse, “Hey, I brought this for you as a congratulations.”

Raven’s hand dropped from Clarke’s shoulder as she leaned back to get a look at the small wooden sculpture in her hand, “You made this?”

She nodded, “It’s a mini totem pole on a necklace.”

She took it in her hand, a small smile pulling at her lips as she examined it, “Oh, my. So it is.”

“The top one is a raven for obvious reasons. That one’s an owl because you’re a wise-owl. The bottom one is a donkey because you’re a pain in the ass.”

The grin that shaped Raven’s mouth confirmed she very much approved of Clarke’s gift, “Thanks, Griffin, I adore it.” She gave her backside a tap with a wink, “And you, too.”

“I know. Anyway, where’s your gentleman friend at?”

Raven nodded over to where a tall, rugged sort of man stood, arms folded over broad chest, “There. His name’s Kyle. Want to meet him?”

“Obviously.” Clarke rolled her eyes, tailing her friend as she led her over to Kyle, “Hi, there.”

He turned and caught her with a charming smile and suddenly, she understood what Raven saw in him.

“Kyle, this is Clarke, my bit on the side.”

He extended a warm hand towards her with a grin, “Bit on the side, eh? What an honour.”

Clarke laughed, shaking his hand, “For Raven, sure.”

“I’m guessing I have you to blame then for her high expectations in bed.”

She smirked, “Guilty as charged. Just to give you the heads up, by the way, I’m about to ask all of those cliché questions that people hate answering, okay?”

Raven arched an eyebrow, clearly interested to see where Clarke was heading with this.

“First off being–”

“–Is it true you’ve done anal?” Octavia slid in between Raven and Clarke, reaching out to shake Kyle’s hand, “Hi, I’m Octavia.”

A knowing look passed across his features, “Ah, right. Yes. Raven’s _other_ side piece?”

She scoffed, “Please. She’d only be so lucky.”

“Was that your question too, Clarke?” He asked, evidently amused.

“It was going to be something a little less, you know, _out_ there. Just a general ‘how did the two of you meet?’ sort of thing, but it seems a little boring in comparison.”

Kyle laughed and allowed Raven to fill in the story of their acquaintance. It was a brief one, consisting mainly of the two of them competing for first place in their academic studies. When Raven got the edge, winning a bet, Kyle agreed he would buy her drinks for an evening.

“… and you know, one thing led to another and we–”

“–did a–”

“–did _not_ do anal. You really need to drop that one, O. It’s vulgar, even for you.” Raven shrugged, “So, there you have it.”

“Cute.” Clarke nudged Raven’s arm, “Can I get you two another drink?”

Kyle shook his head, raising his beer bottle, “I’m good, I think. Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll catch up in a bit. O, where’s _your_ guy?”

“He’s on the decks.” She looked to where Lincoln stood in the corner of the room, concentrating on his equipment with precision, “Don’t let me get _too_ drunk, will you? I don’t want to distract him.”

“Deal, but we both know you’re very distracting.” Clarke squeezed her shoulder lightly, “See you in a bit.”

She headed off to the kitchen to sort herself out with a beer, reaching into her bag to retrieve her phone. Something stalled in her chest when she saw Lexa’s name on her home screen. She took a large swig of beer, opening up the message.

_From: Lexa_

_[20:45] Thank you for thinking of me. I’m grateful for it but still don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come. I’m certain I shan’t be too heavily missed once the alcohol does the things it’s supposed to._

_To: Lexa_

_[21:04] On the contrary, it’s the alcohol that’s telling me to persuade you to come here._

_[21:04] The alcohol, and my desire for intelligent conversation._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:07] I cannot imagine you being without the latter at a party thrown solely to celebrate somebody’s intellect._

Clarke returned to the main room, halfway down her beer as she glanced at the inhabitants in Raven’s space. Including Raven who was engaging herself in not-so-smart behaviours.

_To: Lexa_

_[21:10] Yes, well, said intellectual somebody is currently trying to balance a candle on her head._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:11] Is the candle lit? Should I alert the fire response team in advance?_

Clarke laughed to herself, amusement mixing with the pang of disappointment in her stomach. This was the sort of conversation she would have much preferred to be having with Lexa face to face. She could almost see the smothered humour beneath a stony façade, her only giveaway the subtle quirk of her eyebrows and the flicker behind her green eyes. It was strange to actually notice her absence and _miss_ it.

_To: Lexa_

_[21:15] I wouldn’t bother. Jasper has just tried to drink it. Safe to say, the candle is no longer lit._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:17] Perhaps an ambulance instead._

_To: Lexa_

_[21:18] Maybe a psychiatrist._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:19] Just for Jasper, or…?_

_To: Lexa_

_[21:22] Right now, I can see numerous potential clients. A young man has just legitimately tried to chat up a plant-pot._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:23] I’m pleased the party seems to be going well, then?_

_To: Lexa_

_[21:24] Well enough, yes. Of course, I can think of an addition that would improve it._

_From: Lexa_

_[21:24] What might that be?_

_To: Lexa_

_[21:25] You already know what, Woods_.

Lexa didn’t reply immediately. Clarke frowned to herself at the halt in communication. Perhaps she’d gone a little too heavy. Deciding it would be best to put away her phone at a party and decide to socialise with people actually present, Clarke let her eyes drift around the members of the gathering. Most people were on a steady incline to inebriation, some a little more advanced than others. That meant it was probably time for another beer.

“Hey, Clarke!”

She turned at the sound of Bellamy Blake’s voice, a smile pulling at her mouth in response to his, “Hey, Bell. How are you?”

“Be better after some gat, you know.”

“What, now?”

“Gat.” He repeated, “Guinness. Beer.”

“Ah. Still sober?” She asked as they wandered into the kitchen.

He nodded, passing a bottle over to Clarke of whatever she’d been drinking and getting a can for himself.

“Who have you come with, then?”

Bellamy took a long sip before answering, “Few of the lads and Ash has come along, too.”

Clarke gave a knowing incline of her head, “So, where is she? Why aren’t you drinking with her right now?”

He just shrugged, “She’s more interested in chatting up new faces, I think.”

This didn’t come as a surprise to Clarke at all. She had seen the way Ash had focused her entire attention onto Lexa when they’d first met. In distaste, she had another swig of beer, “Well, drink up your gat, Bell. Didn’t you know that people make better decisions and judgements under the influence of alcohol?”

He released a low chuckle, “Ah, sure look it.”

They both grabbed another beer each, heading back into Raven’s living room amongst the heat of mingling bodies and the low pounding bass. They moved to the rhythm together for a while, enjoying the other’s company. Clarke caught sight of the gentleman she’d seen talking to a plant-pot earlier and smirked to herself, dropping another quick message to Lexa.

_To: Lexa_

_[21:49] Update: Plant-pot boy has discovered (the hard way) that the plant is a cactus._

She put her phone away for good after that, deciding Lexa had most likely taken herself off to bed.

“Oh, wonderful.”

Clarke looked up at the sound of Bellamy’s complaint and followed his gaze over to Lincoln standing with Octavia in the corner of the room, “What’s up?”

He tensed his jaw and shrugged, “I don’t trust the guy.”

“You only say that because he’s sleep–” She immediately recognised the error of her ways and smoothly corrected herself, “–seeing your sister.”

“There’s just something off about him, you know?” Fortunately, Bellamy hadn’t seemed to notice her blunder.

Truthfully, Clarke couldn’t say that she did know. Lincoln had seemed nice enough to her. Sure, a little rough around the edges and intimidating, but that was nothing Octavia couldn’t handle. Besides, Anya would have been likely to offer up a warning if she thought Lincoln was going to cause any sort of problems. At least, that’s what she told Bellamy, anyway. Anya was a different breed to most of the Arcadian attendees. Predicting and understanding her thought patterns or behaviour would have warranted a doctorate degree.

“Come on, drink up, Blake.” She urged, moving a little closer to him. He sighed and did as suggested, necking the rest of his beer, responding to her rhythm easily. They danced together for a little while, Clarke finding herself slowly easing into the energy of the room. It had, admittedly, been a little trying for her at first. For the vast majority of the attendees, Clarke could say she was more or less friends with them, or at least knew them in some capacity. There were some, though, some that she hadn’t seen before. For those, she found they regarded her silently from across the room, whispering to one another. A handful of them would swan over towards her, feathers preened, chests puffed, presenting over-compensating smiles as though they possessed something that none other in the room could ever dream of. For the most part, Clarke would smile and engage in pleasant conversation, steering away from her stance as Jake Griffin’s daughter, feigning interest in their achievements and their net worth. Others would simply watch her coldly, critically. She didn’t mind that so much, though. She could ignore them and even surprise them all with wide grins. Eventually, she blocked them all out, focusing on moving with Bellamy instead.

“Do you know her?” Bellamy asked, nodding his head over her shoulder, “She’s looking at you.”

Clarke sighed, briefly looking in the direction he gestured to, finding a small huddle of girls swaying to the rhythm of the music, each of them surreptitiously stealing glimpses at her. It was difficult to decide which one Bellamy was talking about, so she just shook her head, “No. I don’t know any of them.”

He frowned lightly, “Weird.”

“Not really.” Clarke sighed, trying to push it from her mind.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t know her?” He asked after a few moments, eyes flickering to look behind her one more time, “I’m certain I’ve seen her before.”

“Like I said, I don’t know any of them.”

His eyebrows pushed together briefly, before he took a slow breath inward, “Ah, no. I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about _her_.” He rested his hands on her waist and turned them at a different angle so Clarke could take a look without it seeming so obvious. The second she raised her head, she felt her stomach drop, skin erupting in flames.

Through the shadows of the room, she could see her, chestnut hair pulled gracefully around one side of her neck, dark attire clinging perfectly to her slender form. Clarke stumbled, losing her rhythm completely, Bellamy having to reach out to steady her, almost falling over himself.

To make matters worse, Clarke felt her glacial green gaze absorbing everything.


	14. Chapter 13 - Tolerance To Arsenic

It could have been the alcohol that reduced her brain’s capacity to catch up to her present surroundings, but it was probably the way Lexa was watching her from across the room, something smug shaping her lips through the darkness.

Bellamy was still holding her elbows supportively as she recovered from her near-death experience.

“You good, Griffin?” He asked cautiously, trying to bite back a laugh.

“I – yeah. Thanks.” She steadied herself and patted his shoulder, gratefully.

“One too many beers, maybe?”

She just shook her head, “Not enough, I think.”

He nodded knowingly, smirking as he looked back to Lexa, “Take it you do know the girl, after all.”

She coloured, suddenly thankful for the low lighting, “Yeah. I’d better go say hello.”

Bellamy just chuckled, quietly, “Aye, you’d better.”

She gave him a quick hug before slipping through the crowds towards the violinist who stood taller than most of the females standing near her. How had Clarke not noticed her sooner? Lexa pushed back from the wall, weaving in and out of the people as they finally drew together in a vacant space.

At a loss of what else to say, Clarke scrambled around for something other than the obvious to state, “I thought, I thought you’d gone to bed.”

Lexa’s eyebrows inched higher, apparently not quite expecting her to say that, “Oh, I – no. No, I didn’t. I sent you a message. I said I’d drop by for an hour to catch up on the blossoming romance between plant-pot boy and the cactus.”

Clarke couldn’t help but smile, her eyes drifting over Lexa’s appearance once more. She couldn’t blame herself for it. She was an artist and she liked looking at beautiful things.

“Come on, let’s get you a drink.” She reached forwards and tugged Lexa towards the kitchen, trying to ignore the way her cool hand relaxed into hers. Clarke released her once they reached Raven’s makeshift bar and began to pour herself a gin. She needed something a little stronger than beer. She turned to her, placing down the bottle, “What would you like?”

“I don’t think I should drink tonight, Clarke.”

She paused, taking a sip of her mix, “Are you sure? You might regret having to deal with me while you’re sober.”

“Why, are you planning on being exceptionally difficult tonight?”

“I always plan on being exceptionally difficult.” She confirmed, presenting the bottle of Jameson she’d brought along, “Besides, I brought this on the off-chance…”

Lexa shook her head, but the small smile on her full lips suggested she was resigned, “Alright. Perhaps I’ll have one.”

Clarke set about preparing her a drink, maybe putting a little extra liquid in than intended. She wasn’t the best judge of volume. Lexa received the glass in her hand dubiously but she didn’t remark on the amount of alcohol as Clarke expected her to. Once the two of them were stocked up on drink, Clarke headed back into the main room, sliding into the thick of the party with Lexa beside her. She turned taking another sip of her drink, “What made you change your mind?”

Lexa leaned forward, confusion passing over her features, “Sorry, it’s quite loud in here. What did you say?”

She inched a step closer, tilting her mouth closer to the brunette’s ear, “I said: What made you change your mind? About coming here?”

“You already know what, Griffin.” She pulled her head back just enough to fix her stare onto Clarke’s. It had been ten minutes and already the familiar heat was pounding hard under her skin, Lexa paraphrasing her words to use against her.

“Tell me, anyway.” She requested.

Lexa quirked an eyebrow, “Because you asked me to. Maybe you’d like to tell me why you wanted me here?”

Clarke simply laughed, swallowing the remainder of her drink, “Not sure I’m drunk enough to answer that.” Upon seeing the analytic expression crossing Lexa’s features, she laughed and touched the back of her hand, lightly, “I’m kidding. I wanted you here because I like your company.”

“But there are plenty of people here whose company I’m sure you like.”

“Yes, but none of them are you.” She grinned, playfully.

Something crossed Lexa’s eyes before she muttered with a sigh, “Very charming, Clarke, but I’m serious. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never struggled to find friends at a gathering. Especially one hosted by one of your best friends.”

The artist exhaled, and tugged Lexa over to the sofa as soon as a seat became available. They settled into the comforts of the cushions, Clarke swiping a couple of unopened bottles from the coffee table and passing one to Lexa. She accepted it, seemingly deciding it was better just to go along with Clarke rather than to oppose her.

For a while, the two of them observed the crowds in silence until eventually the blonde spoke, “You’re right. There are people here who I care about a lot. I’ve never felt alienated at a social gathering and I wouldn’t say I particularly felt it here, either. It’s just that things have changed for me recently, as you know. There’s more to my being here than just my love of art and creativity. When people look at me now, they don’t see _just_ an artist or _just_ a friendly young woman as I was before. They see me as the daughter of The Great Jake Griffin.” She added a little sarcasm into her words, taking a swig of beer, “But I’m not going to sit here and preach to you about how isolation feels because I don’t need to. You know that feeling all too well, and I hardly have any grounds to complain to you about how difficult life is.”

Lexa didn’t speak initially. Clarke wondered whether she’d said too much, not for the first time, but had another sip of beer, eyes falling on the moving bodies before her.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re different, Lexa.” She finally glanced at her, realising Lexa’s eyes hadn’t left her once, “I don’t feel as isolated when I’m around you.”

For whatever unbeknownst reason, Lexa seemed incapable of speaking. She continued to look at Clarke with inescapable intensity. The latter just shrugged, breaking away. If she was affected by the silence that greeted her, it didn’t show. Clarke rarely felt ashamed of expressing herself.

“You did ask.” She added when it became apparent Lexa was going to continue to stare at her, mouth opening without sound.

“Clarke–” Whatever meticulous words Lexa had worked herself up to say were lost at the sound of a new arrival.

“–Lexa, what a surprise! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Clarke looked up, eyes settling on Ash. The singer barely even looked her way as she cosied herself beside Lexa on the settee.

The violinist recovered quickly and politely turned her head towards the new arrival, “Ah, so you’re not the psychic I thought you were.”

Ash grinned, knees pointing to Lexa’s thighs, “No, I am. I just forgot to put my crystal ball on charge last night, that’s all. Battery’s dead. I’m due an upgrade, anyway.”

Clarke almost suggested purchasing a power-bank, but it was clear Ash wasn’t here to engage in humorous exchange with her. With that knowledge, she decided to make no attempt to involve herself in conversation, at all. She was more interested in counting the fairy light bulbs decorating the wall than she was pretending that she and Ash were anything more than two people who happened to be in the same room. Besides, she noticed at least three fairy lights in a row were broken. She wanted to point out to Lexa that a young man was staring at the broken bulbs with something of a guilty expression on his face, but Ash was still occupying her full attention and, unlike some, she didn’t think it polite to interrupt others’ conversations. She waited for a break in speech before she lightly touched Lexa’s elbow.

“I’m getting another drink. Would you like one?” She asked.

“How good are you at cocktails?” Ash smirked, leaning forwards so her knees pressed fully to Lexa’s thigh.

“Depends on your tolerance to arsenic, I guess.” Clarke smiled pleasantly, although part of her enjoyed the thought of poisoning Ash, no matter how unwarranted the thought was.

“Then, I’ll have a wine. Not one of the cheap, shitty ones though. Just grab me the best red they have in there.”

“Sure.” Clarke nodded her head, despite knowing very little about wine, “Lexa?”

She wondered if she’d imagined the mild panic that flashed over the brunette’s eyes as she prepared to stand up. _Good_ , she thought. It brought her a little unrighteous satisfaction that Lexa didn’t quite enjoy Ash’s company as much as Ash enjoyed hers.

“Actually, I’m alright. You might struggle to carry them all in.”

Ash laughed and although the sound came across as good-natured, she knew it was far from that, “I bet it makes a change you bringing drinks to others, right?”

Clarke received the mockery with a gracious smile, “I like to switch things up a bit. Keeps life interesting.”

“And your life isn’t interesting enough already?”

“Always seeking new thrills.” She replied patiently and looked back to Lexa, “Whiskey?”

“I can come and help you bring them in.” She offered, shifting slightly in her seat.

Truthfully, Clarke wanted a moment to herself to cool down. She didn’t like it when anger got the better of her and she feared she would let it show before too long, “No, I can manage.”

Lexa studied her for a moment too long.

“Whiskey, then.” Clarke confirmed, catching Lexa’s gaze with a subtle wink to divert her from observing the irritation in her own eyes. Had she stuck around she might have seen the faint colour rise beneath Lexa’s cheeks. As it was, Clarke was already weaving her way back to the kitchen, taking steadying breaths as she went.

She found Murphy toying with the spirits, Kyle making small talk with him as Raven attempted to open a bottle of champagne.

“Are you guys actually going to stand there and allow this catastrophe?” Clarke asked as she stepped up to the counter, indicating to her friend. The two men stopped their conversation and turned to watch Raven swaying on the spot, wrestling with the bottle.

“I have no morals, so…” Murphy shrugged, “But big boyfriend here looks the rescuing type.” He patted Kyle’s bicep, encouragingly.

The latter just laughed and whisked the bottle easily out of Raven’s hands, despite her protests. Murphy turned his roguish smile onto Clarke and poured her a questionable looking concoction, “Here, you’re not drunk enough.”

Clarke felt she was probably at an acceptable level of intoxication, but let herself say something snarky anyway, “Not drunk enough to deal with everybody here, that’s for sure.”

At that, Murphy’s eyebrow twitched in interest, “Oh?”

Clarke exhaled, “That’s probably unfair of me to say.”

He shrugged, “It depends on who we’re talking about.”

“Ash-but-most-people-call-me-Echo-because-I’m-edgy-and-famous-and-better-than-you.”

“Lord.” He blinked, deciding to top her up with more ambiguous liquids.

She took a lengthy sip, not really tasting the flavours he had mixed up for her, “I don’t even have a good enough reason to be this pissy. I mean, she was a little rude to me. I was in the middle of a conversation and she comes blustering in, interrupts us, and then blocks me out of the conversation.” She took another swig, “And _then_ , I went to get a drink and she asks me to bring her the best red wine on offer, making comments about how I’m not used to getting drinks for other people being who I am.”

“But, you know, other than that, she’s perfectly delightful.” Murphy replied, sarcastically.

Clarke grimaced, swilling the contents of her glass around, aimlessly.

“Allow me to take care of her drink.” His eyes wandered over the selection of drinks available, and a smirk crept its way onto his lips, “Ah, is that Lidl brand red wine I see? Perfect.”

“All wine tastes the same to me.”

Murphy paused mid-pour and flashed a glare in her direction, “Don’t ever swear at me like that again.”

Clarke reached for the whiskey and began to pour a serving out for Lexa, or it could have been a double. Maybe a triple. She wasn’t sure. She just splashed some in the bottom of a glass and hoped for the best.

“Here, let’s dash a bit of this in there.”

“What’s that? Juice or alcohol?”

“It’s Vermouth.” He glanced up to her, “Your limited knowledge of drinks is devastating, Griffin.”

“She doesn’t want to drink too much.” She frowned.

Murphy finished mixing and placed the bottle down, “Who? Who has come to a house party with the intention of not getting drunk? They also deserve watered-down budget brand wine.”

Clarke’s eyebrows climbed higher, “You watered it down?”

He smiled, angelically, “Only a little. I didn’t even wait for the water to run cold, so it’s lukewarm.”

She couldn’t help but snort, “You’re the devil, John Murphy.”

He certainly did not deny this and picked up a drink for himself, “So, who did you say the Manhattan was for?”

Clarke looked at him blankly.

“The whiskey, Griffin.”

“Oh, Lexa.” She replied, picking up the glass. She barely noticed he had stopped in his tracks to look at her, “What?”

“Lexa is here?”

“Yes, and I’m well aware I’ve left her alone in the clutches of Ash. Not that Ash minds. She’s infatuated with her.”

Murphy gave an understanding nod, “Reasonable.” He deliberated for a moment, his eyes flickering over Clarke’s expression, thoughtfully.

“What? What is it now, Murph?” She asked, rolling her eyes.

He took a sly sip of his drink, meeting her eyes once more, “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” She creased her eyebrows, “Of what?”

“Ash talking to Lexa.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She muttered, although there was definitely some truth behind what he’d said, “Lexa and I are friends, Murphy, only just friends at that. Never mind anything more.”

His smirk resurfaced, “Funny. I never suggested you _were_ anything more than friends. You came to that conclusion on your own.”

This realisation caught her out and she blushed furiously, “You were implying exactly that and you know it.”

He shrugged, “Not necessarily, but it’s good to know where your mind’s at, Griffin.”

“My god, you’re an ass, Murphy.”

“Is that why you like me so much? You’re an ass girl?” He mimicked, his eye twinkling with mischief.

She turned away from him, trying to ignore the way she had come close to staring the truth directly in the face. It wasn’t that she wanted anything more with Lexa. She was more than content with their friendship the way it was. She had meant what she’d said to Wells about not being ready for anything like that with anyone. With that in mind, she knew she would have been a fool not to recognise the tingle in her spine or the quickness of her breath whenever Lexa looked at her like _that_. Even so, she could acknowledge bare attraction between herself and another without feeling the need to act on it. The thought of giving such a delicate and damaged part of herself to anybody at that time crippled her with fear. She was happy where they were and she blamed John Murphy for bringing forward this entire inner dialogue. How was she supposed to look at Lexa now with these thoughts powering through her head?

She took a drink and a breath, making her way back into the crowds. She didn’t spare a look at Murphy when they returned, fearing the expression he might be wearing as they discovered Ash leaning almost completely into Lexa, laughing with lips directed to her ear. Of course, he’d want nothing more than to spoil the mood.

“So, the rumours are true. The work of art herself is here.” He flashed a dazzling smile, “I’d kiss your hand, Miss Woods, but I am carrying a rather expensive red wine for a mystery guest here.”

“Oh, that would be mine.” Ash reached over to take the glass, “Thank you…?” She paused, waiting for Murphy to fill the silence with an introduction but he said nothing, looking at her expectantly. Recognition slipped over her features and she sipped at her wine, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

He gave her the briefest of condescending smiles, “I can’t recall, so I’m sure it wasn’t significant if we have.”

“You were at the bar in London? When I met Lexa for the first time?”

Murphy’s smile turned a little chilly and he glanced back to Ash, “Unfortunately, you meeting Miss Woods for the first time isn’t a momentous life event for me, so I really couldn’t say.”

Clarke closed her eyes, tentatively. She wasn’t sure she could handle Murphy in full diva mode at that moment, despite the fact she knew she would enjoy looking back on the conversation in time. Clarke could see Ash fighting to remain civil and she felt a little uncomfortable watching it.

“Murphy, you might recognise Ash as the singer ‘Echo’?” She attempted.

He just rolled his eyes, “Oh, goody. Another musician. They’re so rare to come by nowadays.”

“I take it you’re tone deaf?”

“Thankfully.”

“Well, what do you do here, then?” Ash asked and Clarke was certain by the glint in her eyes that the singer already knew exactly who Murphy was. 

Before she could witness her tutor’s inevitable sardonic response, she excused herself to the bathroom, feeling a little too embarrassed to stay there. In her hurry, she forgot to pass Lexa her drink and cursed upon the realisation that she still had both glasses in her hands. Already amongst the heaving bodies when she noticed, Clarke sighed and spun on her heel to head back, suddenly finding herself stepping on somebody’s toes. The minor collision almost made her drop the drinks and she yelped. Two slender hands landed on her waist, steadying her with care. At that moment, she knew exactly who the catalyst was for her unbalance. They’d been in this position before.

She glanced up, eyes meeting a piercing gaze through the shadows. She realised the violinist must have been following her. Her cheeks warmed at the thought.

“Are you alright?” Lexa asked, her hands barely moving from Clarke’s waist.

“I – yes. I realised I forgot to give you your drink.” She held the glass out towards her, suddenly realising she was offering her own, “Sorry, that one’s mine. This one is yours.” She shook her head and held out the drink in her other hand.

Lexa ordinarily might have appeared amused, but she just inclined her head, releasing her hold on Clarke, slowly. She took the drink and raised an eyebrow, sniffing the liquid, “You’ve had fun with this one, haven’t you?”

“Yeah – no. No, Murphy did.” She corrected, cursing herself for her inability to function as a regular human being, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Lexa had a sip of the drink and something threatened to corrupt the calm on her expression, “Oh, god, that’s strong.” She ran her tongue over her lips and Clarke felt her throat dry up.

“You don’t have to drink it.”

Lexa thought about it, but managed to swallow another mouthful, “Sorry, didn’t you need to use the bathroom?”

Clarke sighed and shook her head, tasting the bitterness on her tongue, although she blamed the alcohol, “No, I just wanted to save myself the embarrassment of Murphy’s narcissism.”

“By the way, nothing’s wrong with you, Clarke.” Lexa said eventually, moving an inch closer as the swaying partiers nudged into her, “I actually–”

Lincoln switched the song, changing the vibe of the room completely. The bass was heavy, pounding through Clarke’s chest and she could barely hear a word Lexa said.

“What?” She mouthed through the darkness.

Lexa impressively knocked back the remainder of her drink, her lips pressing together for a few seconds before she gestured for Clarke to do the same. Not one to turn down the opportunity to invite further intoxication, she polished off her cocktail and Lexa took both their glasses, reaching through a gap in people to place both glasses on the nearest surface.

There was something more relaxed about the brunette, about the way she held herself; she stayed graceful in her movements, but there was less visible tension in her shoulders. Clarke wanted to press her hand to her back to feel the loosened muscles. Lexa gave herself a moment to settle into the rhythm of the music and the artist naturally did the same. Both music and dance were in her blood. Even if this wasn’t the genre she favoured, her body automatically submitted to the beat. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Lexa’s hips had done the same. The heat licked her throat but this time she couldn’t blame the alcohol.

“What were you going to say?” Clarke raised her voice over the music, but she still felt muted.

It was obvious Lexa hadn’t caught what she’d said at first, so Clarke took a step closer, pushing aside the intrusive thoughts, one hand resting on Lexa’s elbow as she spoke more clearly, “You were going to say something?”

She nodded, her hand resting just above the small of Clarke’s back, dipping her head down to level with her ear, “Yes, I understand what you meant earlier about feeling isolated. It’s people like Ash, isn’t it? Using your status against you.”

She sighed, biting down firmly on her lip.

“I respect the way you handled it.”

“That’s just it. I don’t have a choice, do I?” Clarke returned, only marginally aware their clothes brushed as the pulse of the crowds urged them closer together.

“Yes. You do.” Lexa answered, “You chose to be gracious. It would have been far easier to have been unkind and you could have gotten away with it, too.”

“You think? Would you have done that in my situation? Been unkind?”

Lexa paused, her hand shifting against Clarke’s spine, “I don’t know because I don’t know what it feels like to be in your situation.”

“Sure, you do.”

“No, Clarke. I don’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m not in charge of Arcadia, for one.”

“But you still have expectations to live up to. You still have an established reputation.”

“Yes, but I have had to work to get where I am. I could make a wrong choice and ruin everything for myself. You were born into it and you will always have that reputation regardless of what you do.”

“So, you think I haven’t had to work to get here?” She pulled back to appraise Lexa when the music softened once more, her fingers still curled around her elbow.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She stated, evenly.

“No, but you’re right. I was born into this whether I wanted to be or not, so I should be used to people basing their opinions of me on my privilege. They’ll say ‘Oh, look, Jake Griffin’s daughter has painted a pretty picture’ whether it’s a pile of shit or something good. Just because I’m privileged, it doesn’t mean I should get away with being a brat.”

The two of them had stopped moving at this point, but there was something flickering behind Lexa’s stare that she found hard to ignore, “No, and nor should you be a brat. That isn’t what I’m saying.”

“No, you’re congratulating me on being polite to somebody. Well done to me for condescending to social propriety.”

“ _Now_ you’re being a brat.”

Clarke’s angry eyes flashed to meet an impenetrable wall of green, “But I can get away with it, right?”

“Not with me,” Lexa tightened her hold on Clarke and she couldn’t differentiate which heartbeat belonged to who as they were both competing for speed and intensity, “because I know you, Clarke.”

“Do you?”

“More than you think I do.”

“I doubt it.”

“Look, I was wrong before. You weren’t just born into it. You were born _for_ it.”

Clarke felt the venom rise to her tongue, “No, I wasn’t. That’s the thing. Had I been somebody like you, maybe. But I’m not.”

Lexa watched her, carefully. It was maddening.

“You step into a room and you can command it. That’s the sort of person my dad needed. That’s why he chose you to come here.” Clarke knew she was being unfair to Lexa, but she had touched a nerve, one that had been exposed all evening, “I could never be that person. Even if I could, I wouldn’t _want_ to be.”

“But you are, Clarke. It’s as you say, whether you like it or not. What I’m saying is that you _can_ get away with things that others can’t, but you choose not to. That’s why you’re exactly the right person for this. You can be as pissed off about it as you want, but it won’t change the facts.”

“I’m pissed off because, despite my privilege, there are still things in this world that I want but I can’t have. Just like everybody else. If anything, it’s _because_ of my privilege that I can’t have them.”

“Give up then, if you want.”

“And then what? Leave my family to sort out the mess I’ve left behind?”

Lexa shrugged, “Since you care about having the things you want so much, I don’t see why that would matter.”

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t do that to them.” She suspected Lexa already knew this and that she was calling Clarke’s bluff from the start.

“So, what _do_ you want, Clarke? What do you want that’s so impossible for somebody of your status to achieve?”

“I don’t know!” She fired back, and it was the truth, “To live normally, to _feel_ normally. To be able to make friends with people without them just telling me the things they think I want to hear.”

Lexa kept quiet for a moment, her eyes searching the depths of Clarke’s, before she spoke, “And yet, you are arguing with me because I have told you things you don’t want to hear. You can’t have it both ways.”

Everything Lexa said was making perfect sense, and yet it made her temper worse. She wanted to laugh at herself. She knew how ridiculous she was being and she knew she was going to despise herself for it the next day. Whatever Murphy had put in her drink had reacted adversely with the chemicals already within her and she just couldn’t stop herself. It was more embarrassing than the debacle between Murphy and Ash. _Murphy and Ash_ …

“Mash.” She said quietly to herself.

“What?” Lexa blinked.

“Portmanteau.” She reasoned, when in actual fact, she was a little beyond reason.

“Okay, you’re drunk. This conversation is over.” Lexa sighed, “Let’s get some water.”

Clarke followed her blindly into the kitchen, allowing Lexa to fetch her a glass of water. She drained the contents within seconds, taking a deep breath, “I think I need some air.”

Clarke pulled Lexa outside onto the patio, sitting down on the step. Lexa carefully lowered herself beside her, probably questioning a thousand times why she’d bothered coming here.

“What do you want?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said: What do you want, Lexa? Talking about what I’ve been born to do, what about you? What were you born to do?”

She sighed, “It seems I was born to deal with your incessant questions.”

Clarke frowned, not in the mood to be teased, “I’m serious.”

“This isn’t really about me, Clarke.”

She shrugged, “You’ve just had to put up with me being a bitch for, like, ten minutes. Haven’t you had enough?”

“It’s been at least twenty.” Lexa corrected.

“Exactly, so tell me. What is it you want?”

For a moment, Clarke could have sworn green eyes flickered down to her lips. The vision made her pulse quicken, but then it was over. There was something breakable between them in that moment. A sheet of paper-thin glass was their only barrier. To shatter it could have brought them closer or it could have cut through their skins instead. All it would’ve taken was a tap; a touch, even. Intoxication did nothing for Clarke’s precision.

“I’ve already told you why I came to Arcadia.”

“I know, but why are you _here_? Surely, people can want more than one thing?” Clarke didn’t know what she was angling to get out of Lexa. Maybe she wanted to know she wasn’t alone. Maybe she wanted to know she wasn’t the only one crying out for clarity. Maybe she just wanted to know if Lexa felt any of this too.

“That doesn’t mean they should. Maybe I _shouldn’t_ be here.”

Her stomach dropped, “Why?”

“Because I have a legacy to fulfil.” Lexa stated it matter-of-fact and, had anyone else said it, she might’ve scoffed at the implied narcissism, but she didn’t, “You know, she was very young when she got pregnant, my mother. Whoever the man was didn’t stick around. He just walked out. I knew I wasn’t planned for or even wanted, but she sacrificed absolutely everything she had for me despite all that.”

Clarke was quiet, listening carefully. Despite her inebriation, she absorbed every word. She could do nothing else. Lexa’s words struck home. It was deep. Deep and painful and all too real.

“She could have achieved anything, but she chose me instead and I never once felt she regretted that decision. She could have paid more for her medical treatment, but she directed the majority of her funds to me. I guess it must have been a hard decision and not one she made lightly. Knowing she would be leaving me an orphan must have been a hard call to make.”

She understood fully why Lexa had been so careful about allowing people into her life. In a sense, Clarke could relate, but from an entirely different angle.

“Clarke, I can’t lose sight of the reason why I’m here.” She turned to face her directly, “I _can’t_. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It pained her to admit it for some unspoken reason but she understood it.

“I don’t think I should have come here tonight.”

Clarke bit her lip, the chill of the night air slipping over her skin, but she sensed it wasn’t the sole cause of the shiver crawling down her spine, “So, why did you?”

“Because,” Lexa shoved a hand through her hair and it was the first time Clarke had seen her accidentally betray herself, “because I wanted to see you.”

She was angry.

“I should be making sure I have everything prepared for tomorrow, but I’m here, drunk and confused, pouring my heart out about how dedicated I am to my cause when I’m actually just jeopardising the entire thing.”

Clarke inclined her head, maintaining the calm, aware their positions were slowly reversing.

“God, I’m a fool. This was a mistake, Clarke. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, “This doesn’t have to jeopardise everything you’ve worked towards, Lexa.”

“But it does. The more time we spend together, the harder this is going to get for me.” She muttered, more to herself than to the blonde sitting beside her on the patio step, “It’s easier not to have distractions, at all. I care about you, Clarke, and I’m grateful for the kindness you’ve shown me. I just can’t afford to make any more mistakes.”

“So… so, what are you saying, then?”

For a moment, Lexa looked utterly lost and she wanted nothing more than to reach out to her, to ground her, to remind her that they worked better as allies than they did enemies. For the most part, it was true. Clarke thought about what they had accomplished when they worked together; the sculpture, Lexa’s violin, _trust_.

“I’m saying I need to stay focused on why I’m here. I’m here for my career. I’m not here to make friends. I’m sorry, it isn’t personal–” She cut herself off a little too late. She knew it was personal.

Even though Clarke knew this was the direction they had been heading in, probably from the start of their mutual peace-treaty, it still hurt to hear her say it.

“What else can I _do_ , Clarke?”

“Get your ass home to bed and sleep. Revisit it sober, instead. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to make decisions in the middle of the night after drinking one of Murphy’s cocktails.”

Lexa didn’t laugh.

“Look, if you’ve already given this some thought, then fine. This is the direction we’ll go in. I’d just prefer us to discuss it when we’re not under the influence of alcohol. Is that unreasonable?”

She shook her head, “No, it isn’t.”

“Right. I’ll say one last thing on the matter before you go home, okay?” Clarke took the silence as confirmation and she continued, “I understand your cause and I respect it, Lexa. I will do all I can to support you in it because, by some shocking turn of events, I care about you too. I don’t want to lose you as a friend or ally, or whatever we are, and I would never threaten you with my privilege or try to bribe you with it, either.” She took a breath before finalising her thoughts, “So, think carefully about the choice you make, because I _do_ take things personally and I am not ashamed of admitting it. But, that aside, the choice you make needs to be one that makes _you_ happy. Truly happy. I would never ask you to spend time with me if I thought it caused you unhappiness.”

“You don’t cause…” Lexa shook her head and fixed her eyes ahead of her, glassy and vacant, “You deserve more.” She didn’t offer any explanation. There was no elaboration. Clarke wanted to ask, but she could barely move her lips. “I’m going to go. I’m sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke just nodded and watched her stand up, saying nothing. She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t feel like it. She was still trying to fathom how Lexa had changed so rapidly within minutes; she knew she must have had something to do with it. Perhaps she’d been too intense, too annoying, too much. With a frown, Clarke leaned back on her palms, watching the brunette disappear. She knew the shame and embarrassment would hit her at some point, but she decided she would enjoy the numbness while it lasted.

.::.::.::.::.::.

The day had transpired exactly as Lexa had presumed it would. She was exhausted, hungover and empty. Although nothing went drastically wrong for her the next day, she knew she hadn’t performed to the standard she held herself to. She didn’t immediately revisit the night before for a number of reasons: the first, because she couldn’t afford any more distractions than she’d already given herself; the second, because she couldn’t bring herself to make any decisions without careful thought; the third, because she was afraid of feeling the inevitable shame she had brought on herself through drinking too much and allowing it to control her; and the fourth, because she couldn’t bear to think of Clarke right then. She couldn’t bear to think of the way she had looked that night, the way her clothes hugged her figure, the way her eyes sparkled and the shape of her mouth whenever she smiled. Most of all, she couldn’t bear to think of the hurt. She knew Clarke hadn’t shown it for pity. It was not an expression she wore lightly. Lexa had seen her strength at Jake Griffin’s funeral; seen the way she pushed aside her own feelings for the sake of others. She rarely put herself first. So, when the light in Clarke’s eyes had dissipated at Lexa’s words, she knew it was because she was truly hurt.

And now, now, she was thinking about it after vowing she would not.

Lexa made her way out of the recital hall, already knowing the critique she would receive, especially by Anya, and already dreading it. She could practically hear her voice in her head, pounding against the insides of her skull. Or perhaps that was the dehydration.

Her trip to the library provided some relief as the air hit her lungs, revitalising her with oxygen. The brightness behind the grey clouds left something to be desired, though; sunglasses, probably. When sitting in front of a computer screen, her eyes were unfocused and painful.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

After setting up her desktop and opening up the software she needed, Lexa grabbed her purse and headed to the coffee machine, deciding on an espresso to begin with and a cappuccino to go. She returned to her camp at the desk and rummaged through her bags for her notes. At least she had packed everything she would need the day before. There wasn’t a great deal to go over in her composition, aside from a few finishing touches.

After plugging in her headphones and listening to the composition through twice, Lexa cursed silently to herself. How was she supposed to focus when every unwanted thought she had felt like a sharp stab to the head? For a few minutes, she sat with her eyes closed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers and thumb.

More coffee.

The day seemed to drag Lexa along with it, caring very little about the collateral damage it caused. She listened through her composition once more, unsatisfied and unsettled. The piece itself was exactly what Anya had wanted her to create in the end, but there was something about it that felt detached. She had formed a piece of music that was musically sound; close harmonies, delicate key changes, building dynamics. Everything was as Anya had directed. She sent it across to her email and dropped a text to remind her to check over it before the final submission to the board.

Anya’s reply came through around twenty minutes later. Lexa had spent the majority of that time simply sitting with her head tilted back, trying to rid herself of the ringing in her ears.

_From: Anya_

_[14:46] Beautifully done._

Lexa sighed as she read the text, tapping out a response after a moment or two.

_To: Anya_

_[14:49] Ready for submission then?_

_From: Anya_

_[14:50] Sure, if you’re happy to get a piece you hate published._

_To: Anya_

_[14:52] Are you serious?_

Anya didn’t reply, at least not straight away. Lexa growled quietly to herself, looking over the composition on her screen with distaste. What was she supposed to take from that? Anya had pushed her to create this. She had followed every instruction and come up with _exactly_ the sort of thing she knew the board would lap up, only to have Anya drop a sarcastic remark at the last minute, making her question absolutely everything.

Lexa certainly wasn’t in the right frame of mind to take such a comment with a pinch of salt. In her contempt, she opened a copy of the composition she had initially created. One that Anya had despised. She had just over 3 hours before the deadline closed and the first – and only – draft of her original score was barely even close to being complete. She pulled the headphones back over her ears and leaned forwards, downing the rest of her coffee.

She opened up a few of the raw recordings she had created in the practice rooms when first forming the ideas of her initial composition and listened through them. Her head, surprisingly enough, was becoming clearer by the minute. She worked solidly for just under 3 hours, pouring everything she felt into this one composition. She knew Anya wouldn’t like the style. She didn’t care.

Lexa thought about the way she had been feeling all day, the way she had felt the previous night, and she used it as fuel. This piece was going to be powerful. An acquired taste, for sure. She knew for a fact it could well be rejected from the board, but she didn’t care.

What was the point in creating something she had no passion for?

Once she had refined the bars and phrases that caused her any discontent, Lexa listened to the music from start to finish.

The structure itself was divided into three movements. ‘Movement I’ carried elements of her most recent composition, perfect harmonies and flowing chords. It was pure, angelic. ‘Movement II’ made a mockery of the first, picking out the innocence and tarnishing it, embracing the discord and the conflict and harbouring it, nurturing it even. ‘Movement III’, although reflected on the fundamentals of the first two, dealt with the underlying notes, the tonics and the thirds. It was somewhat slower, taking the previously used progressions of dissonance and maturing them into something substantial, something compelling. Towards the end, the harmonies dissolved, leaving only the melody. Alone, the tune was desperate, sorrowful, wanting. The notes were exposed and vulnerable. Once it tapered away into a heart-breaking but final close, Lexa sat back in her chair, chest pounding.

Ten minutes before the close of the deadline and Lexa didn’t have the time to run it by Anya. Besides, she knew her tutor would have been of little help. Regardless, Anya had access to the portal in which Lexa had submitted the composition, so she would be able to listen to it anyway.

_From: Anya_

_[18:11] I almost thought you weren’t going to submit it._

_[18:38] Oh. I’m mistaken. You didn’t._

_To: Anya_

_[18:42] Do you hate it?_

_From: Anya_

_[18:50] Yes._

_To: Anya_

_[18:53] Good. Are you disappointed in me?_

_From: Anya_

_[19:02] No. I’m proud of you and you damn well know it._

_To: Anya_

_[19:05] Pity._

Lexa couldn’t help but allow herself a small smile, a faint glow peaking in her chest. She had taken a risk, one that likely would not pay off, but it had felt good. It had felt right. Part of her incredulously demanded a logical explanation. Why would she _not_ submit the guaranteed composition? Why would she pass up such a good opportunity for the sake of her own pride? Never had Lexa ever gone with an idea just because it “felt right”. Such a notion was preposterous and was sure to bring about failure. Failure was counterproductive to her entire purpose.

The thoughts plummeting through her head should have worried her more than they did in that minute. Despite the mechanical analysis she was subjecting herself to, she still felt somewhat looser in her chest than she had when considering the prospect of submitting the more “perfect” composition.

Lexa packed her things away and switched off the computer, finally feeling ready to head back to her place and eat something that wasn’t just a commonly found item in a vending machine. She knew she had a few busy days coming up, things that would have to be wrapped up before the weekend, but at least she had conquered her first hurdle – with a hangover, no less.

The thought prompted unwelcome thoughts; thoughts she would have to pick through when her mind was more invigorated. She had exhausted herself with the day’s work and she not only owed it to herself, but owed it to Clarke too, to allow herself the chance to reflect when she had the energy to do so.

She was certain Clarke would be busy, too. She had mountains of responsibilities to meet on a daily basis. The last thing she would need would be a poorly constructed resolution to the drunken conversation they had whilst sitting on a patio step in the middle of the night.

Besides, Lexa knew that giving herself even one thought of the cobalt fire she’d seen in blazing her eyes would be as enslaving as it would be liberating. She was reminded of her composition and the way the second movement had created within her such turmoil, but had also offered such release.

As her head hit the pillow, Lexa wondered vaguely if she would have had the courage to submit her composition without first witnessing the fierce heart and formidable will of Clarke Griffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't find me, it's because I'm currently terrified of what you'll all do to me and have bolted all the doors and windows, deciding it is safer to hide under the bed.
> 
> In seriousness, all is by design. I promise good things will come to those who wait. You have all done spectacularly and I appreciate your support more than you know. 
> 
> xox


	15. Chapter 14 - Honour Amongst Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, for those who have not seen my post on Tumblr, I thought I'd give you a brief update that I'm currently self-isolating at home due to experiencing symptoms. As I've said, I will aim for this not to affect the schedule of my updates but it fully depends on how well I am physically during the course of the next week. At the moment, I'm variable. So, please go easy on me, as I'm sure you will. Although I know we are at a challenging part of the story, I really do appreciate you all not murdering me (yet). Your words bring me an immeasurable amount of joy and I really appreciate your support. I promise I'm not toying with your emotions for the sake of it. All is part of my grand master plan. *Evil laugh*  
> No, I kid, I kid.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> xox

_From: Clarke_

_[09:42] Lexa, I have given a lot of thought to the other night. To be honest, it’s been hard to think of anything else these last few days (yes, I should probably get a life). I’ve been feeling pretty awful about how things turned out and I’m sorry for that. I won’t try and blame it on the boogie/boozie(?), don’t worry. I was a dick to you and you didn’t deserve it. I’m assuming since I haven’t heard from you, you’ve either forgotten about the conversation we had or you just haven’t changed your mind on the matter. Whatever your thoughts, it’d be good to hear from you so I know where you’re at with it all._

Lexa hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t come close to it. Part of her wished she could have forgotten about it, even just for a few hours. In the brief moments where her body began to calm between the tight time constraints of her schedule, she was reminded of the dull ache residing in the hollow of her chest. It had been present since that night. At first, Lexa had hoped it was a direct cause of the hangover, but the feeling had remained long after that had passed. In a way, she was grateful to have been kept too busy to really reflect on what had happened. Procrastination had never been her style and the guilt worked its way through her each time she put off responding to the message. In any case, she had made it clear to Clarke what her priorities were in coming to Arcadia, so until she had worked through her task list, she simply could not devote the time or the energy into confronting difficult feelings, particularly when such feelings could affect her progression.

Lexa could almost envision the look on Clarke’s face as she mouthed “bullshit” from the depth of her imagination.

Loosening her bow strings and placing her violin carefully back into its case, Lexa took a steadying breath inward. She had received the message a couple of days ago and she knew she was merely delaying the uncomfortable debate she would need to have with herself before coming to a conclusion, let alone delivering that conclusion to Clarke. She was furious with herself for behaving the way she was, and yet she felt paralysed.

Fortunately, she had the evening to herself. She had practiced earlier than usual as the Soundhouse tended to be quieter on Friday evenings. She headed through the corridors, her shoulders bearing the weight of her violin, swearing to herself it felt heavier than normal.

“Lexa?”

She stopped and turned at the sound, placing the voice as Ash’s. Suddenly, it felt like she had swallowed a stone. It rolled around the pit of her stomach.

“We just keep bumping into each other, don’t we?”

Lexa managed to incline her head politely, “It certainly seems that way.”

“Where you off to?” Ash made a beeline for her down the corridor, dropping into the space beside her.

“Just back to my place.”

She arched an eyebrow, “On a Friday? You’re not going out?”

Lexa shook her head, “No plans to, no. Still recovering from Raven’s.” She knew she should have cracked a smile, but her expression remained unchanged, “Are you?”

Ash shrugged, easily, “Not made my mind up just yet. Might just have a chilled one. If you fancied it, you’re more than welcome to join.”

“Thanks, but I think I need an early night.”

The singer laughed, “Wow, are you usually this fun?”

Fighting the urge to bristle at the well-intended joke, Lexa nodded her head but said nothing.

“Look,” Her smile faded as she shifted her weight onto one foot, “I’d be interested in doing some samples with you some time. Maybe experiment with each other a little. I’m always looking for new styles. Do you think you’d have some spare time over the weekend?”

Lexa considered this, hoping to think up some noncommittal response to the direct invitation, instead of simply saying “no”. Before she could come up with something suitable, Ash slid her phone into her grip, “Put your number in there. I’ll text you. You can have a think about it and let me know if you’re interested.”

“That’s not really the sort of thing I do.”

“I get that. It’s cool. You don’t have to commit to anything but, you know, if you ever fancied a break from all the hardcore classical shit you do…” She finished her sentence with a shrug.

Lexa wasn’t sure what she could offer Ash that she couldn’t find elsewhere. They specialised in completely different areas of music. Anya probably would have encouraged collaboration with other musicians but she wasn’t sure her tutor would encourage such an alliance with Ash. Instead, Lexa pulled out a business card from her purse, deciding to take the formal route. She didn’t want to give any wrong impressions. Boundaries were important.

“Here.” She passed the card to Ash along with the phone, “I ought to let you get on with your evening, anyway.”

Ash shrugged, “Yeah, alright. Sure you don’t want to chill with us tonight?”

Lexa inclined her head, “I’m sure.”

“You don’t beat about the bush, do you?”

She didn’t respond and so Ash just smiled slightly, “Well, I’ll see you around.”

She didn’t doubt it, but thoughts of entangling her schedule with the other musician quickly dispersed from her mind as she stepped out into the pleasant evening air. It was a nice change to be able to be underneath a clear sky without the immediate threat of rain hanging over her head. Lexa took advantage of the weather to take the long walk back to her place; it helped to feel the breeze against her skin. There had been a small voice somewhere in the back of her head that almost encouraged her to take up Ash’s offer. That way, she could have avoided putting herself through the strain of acknowledging the choices she had to make. Yet, Lexa had never been a procrastinator.

When she looked back on the blur of that evening, amongst the hazy memories, there were moments that were etched into her mind like frozen sculptures. Whilst everything else had passed by them, the low pounding bass and the swaying of bodies, Lexa could still recall, with exact precision, the way Clarke had looked at her as they stood in the centre of the crowd. It was suffocating then and it was suffocating now.

There was something that haunted more than anything else, though. Amidst the hurt in Clarke’s expression at Lexa’s attempt to put an end to their alliance, there was a chilling lack of response in her stare. There had been no surprise there. No faint gasp or recoil. It was as if Clarke had expected it all along. In reality, she probably had. Clarke was kind and compassionate by nature but she certainly wasn’t a fool. Just because she saw the good in others, it did not render her blind. The guilt resurfaced and sat somewhere at the back of Lexa’s throat.

It just wasn’t quite enough to make her change her mind. Then again, perhaps she should not have applied such a dichotomous perspective to the situation. Why could she not pursue her career whilst maintaining a friendship with somebody she respected? Why did it have to be one or the other?

Yet, she knew why. Even with an absence of suitable words to describe it, Lexa knew.

Clarke consumed her from her centre, all the way to her exterior. She had the power to make Lexa question her concrete judgement, whether knowingly or not. She knew Raven’s party would have been a mistake before she even made the decision to go, but she had found herself willingly embracing such a mistake on pure impulse and Lexa was _not_ impulsive by nature. That was why she was terrified. Clarke could move her in ways nobody else ever had.

Even the fact she had to put so much thought into breaking off a friendship with somebody was unhealthy. She had _never_ struggled detaching herself in the past. Not really, anyway. So, why now? She was angry that she even _had_ to have this conversation with herself. Surely that was a sign of toxicity.

Lexa unlocked her apartment and flipped on the light as she stepped inside, taking a breath. She poured herself a glass of wine from the kitchen and leaned against the counter, thoughts still trickling through her mind.

_Toxicity_. Lexa thought of the word with some intrigue. The term ‘toxic’ was often applied to people who brought out negative qualities in another. Toxicity was often shared between two people, or so she had heard. Lexa had rarely stayed close with anybody for long enough to find out what happened when a relationship, platonic or romantic, was touched with poison. It wasn’t that she was a stranger to human connection; she wasn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t tempt herself with the idea of it sometimes; she did. She was not incapable of empathy. There were those who had thought she was in the past. The knowledge she had reaped the rewards of Clarke’s friendship and then turned on her without any warning was something that filled her with shame. This was not a choice she could make lightly.

Lexa pressed her lips together and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from the top drawer of the desk. It would help to draft something up so she could organise the thoughts she was having, at least. That way she could type the words up as a text when she was satisfied enough to reply with something substantial.

_The last thing I want to do is appear ungrateful to you when you have shown me only kindness over these last few weeks. The truth is I don’t think we should continue_

“No.” She muttered.

_The truth is I ~~don’t think we should continue~~ meant the things I said to you that night. I meant the parts about you being born for _

She screwed the paper up in frustration and started afresh, blue eyes sliding into the forefront of her mind. She didn’t want to upset Clarke but she knew there wasn’t a pleasant way to highlight how she felt. The very least she could do was to be honest.

_Sorry for the silence. I’ve had a lot to deal with over the past few days but I think the last few days have taught me that I need to keep my focus more than ever. I hope we can continue to be civil, despite knowing you will take this personally._

“Fool, Woods.” Lexa leaned back in her chair, rereading the words she’d scrawled across the paper. It was pathetic, really. She took another drink of wine and pinched the bridge of her nose. If she was as proficient as translating her feelings into the English language as she was into music, she wouldn’t be fighting with herself the way she was. More wine. More paper.

_I can only apologise it has taken me so long to reply to your message. In part, it has been difficult for me to think back to that night without a sense of guilt. There was truth in the things I said to you. It was just unfair of me to tell you about my thoughts so abruptly. I don’t want you to think this is easy for me, but I don’t say that for pity or for empathy. I just want you to know that I have given this a great deal of thought. In the past, it may come as surprise to you to know that I have given too much of myself to others, something I have a feeling you are no stranger to. You have been a good friend to me, better than I ever could have asked for, and I hope I have been to you. The thing is, in some small way, I have already begun to lose my way in this place and that terrifies me. In no way is that your fault. I understand that I am responsible for my actions. I shouldn’t have gone to the party knowing I had big commitments the next day. Fortunately, I managed to get the things done I needed to, but if I continue to take risks like that, I’m bound to mess up at some point. I can’t afford to let my focus slip, not even for a moment. Not when it could cost me everything. Not when it would mean my mother’s sacrifice would be for nothing. You have impacted me more than I thought anybody could and that’s what frightens me the most. I don’t want there to be bad blood between us but I can’t really see an alternative, knowing that this is personal to you. Again, I’m sorry it has taken me this long to respond._

Lexa downed another glass of wine, deciding there was little more she could realistically say. She knew Clarke would have questions. She even had some of her own, but she meant it when she said she could not lose focus. Questioning herself wouldn’t solve a thing. She copied the draft out into text and sent it along to Clarke before she could talk herself out of it and decided to just take the bottle of wine to bed instead of putting it back in the cupboard.

It was about an hour later when Lexa realised Clarke had replied. Her chest heaved when she saw the notification. Part of her had hoped not to receive a response, but she had. Part of her thought it would’ve been easier to just pretend Clarke didn’t exist from that point, but she knew that was far from likely. Clarke was everywhere because she _literally_ owned Arcadia. Whenever Lexa woke up and saw the British overcast out of her window, whenever she attended Anya’s tutor sessions, whenever she practiced her violin in the wonderful structure of the Soundhouse, it was because Jake Griffin had allowed her to. As far as she was concerned, Clarke was one day going to be as great as her father was and she was well on her way to it already. Regardless of what happened, there was no pretending that Clarke did not exist. That was what would get to her.

_From: Clarke_

_[21:46] Can I at least ask what it is that I’ve done that has caused you this much conflict?_

But what would truly get her the most was knowing that Clarke would continue to exist for Lexa with or without Arcadia and somehow, somehow, she couldn’t bear to tell her why.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“Murphy, stop fussing, will you?”

John Murphy was examining his face in the mirror, pulling his skin tightly over his cheekbones in despair, “I cannot believe that today, of all the bloody days, I have developed a spot.”

He stopped giving himself a temporary facelift with his hands and pointed to the very faint blemish on his chin, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“What?” Clarke narrowed her eyes to focus on the slight mark currently turning Murphy’s world upside down and exhaled, reaching into her purse, “Oh, come here, drama queen.”

He turned to her, frantically. She wasted little time in applying a little concealer to his chin and blending it in with his complexion.

“See?” She turned him to the mirror, “All better.”

“You think?” He asked, still poking at his face.

“Absolutely. You look gorgeous.”

“Are you sure?”

Clarke nodded, reassuringly resting a hand on his shoulder, “I am doubly certain.”

“How can you be doubly certain? That’s not possible.”

“I don’t know, Murph. I’m an artist, not a fucking scientist.” She tugged him away from the mirror, “Now, let’s go.”

He looked panicked once more, “Oh, god. I’m not ready.”

Snapping her fingers, Clarke regained his attention, “Look at me. Hey. You can do this. You are going to _slay_ that crowd. You always do and you always will.”

“It’s easy for you to say when you’ve literally spoken in front of an entire nation,” he returned, trying to step in front of the mirror once more, “Miss Clarke Queen-of-Arcadia Griffin.”

She shrugged, “Well, that’s unfortunately what happens when your father decides to make it his dying wish. It was more unfortunate for the nation to actually have to listen to me than it was for me to talk. Luckily for you, you are actually blessed with the gift of public speaking, despite what your anxieties tell you.”

“And I do look good, don’t I?”

She allowed him one more moment of preening himself before she pulled him away once more, “You look perfect. You are the best piece of artwork I’ve ever seen. Now, deep breaths with me, please.”

Murphy was surprisingly good at following instructions when under stress and was able to correctly mimic Clarke’s direction. It was of course possible that she was also just as apt at giving instructions. This wasn’t a new scenario for either of them. Regardless, Murphy seemed to calm down and ground himself, “Yes. Okay. I’m ready. What if I go red?”

“Then people will quickly find out that red is your colour.”

He nodded in acceptance, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, exactly.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, leading him out the door, “You’ve got this. I promise.”

“Thanks, Griffin. You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

“I won’t take my eyes off you for a second.” She squeezed his hand as they entered the atrium of the extravagant gallery.

It had always struck Clarke as odd that Murphy had struggled with public speaking. They went through this ritual every single time he presented an event; and he did so frequently. She had rarely seen confidence such as his rivalled and he had always swept into any social occasion with charismatic ease. Yet, for some reason, he could not get past his fear of speaking publicly. For somebody so able to interact with just about anybody without fear and for somebody who adored to be the centre of attention, it was shocking that he almost crumbled whenever asked to give a speech.

His eyes widened marginally at the gathering of people crowded around the podium in the centre of the room. It was larger than any of the crowds Clarke had seen at an exhibition before. Even one of Murphy’s. Clarke walked quietly beside him, lightly touching his back. He just shook his head, marginally, “I can’t do it.” He murmured, quietly, “My palms are sweating. Could you just do it for me?”

She shook her head, nudging him forwards onto the platform, “I would ruin everything and you know it.” She waited at the very edge of the platform, relaxing her posture to make it seem utterly normal that she was standing closer to the great artist than anybody else. She retrieved two glasses of champagne, knowing he would need it immediately after doing the speech and not a second before. Once, he took a drink up with him and dropped it by mistake, the glass smashing into pieces and the liquid landing all over his brand-new shoes. He’d somehow managed to play it off with a laugh, saying it was his best work so far, but there were only so many times that joke would land and so many times he could buy the same pair of shoes again.

Murphy seemed to transform the moment he stood before the crowd. Clarke knew he was still nervous because she’s seen his act enough times before. He stood tall with shoulders dropped back. After the crowd hushed, he pulled them in with a roguish smile, “Power.” He stated simply, “Power is something we have all witnessed in our lives and it is something we have all craved. Power can be beautiful. Power can be destructive. To me, there is power in creating something beautiful.”

He pointed to a small and fragile sculpture crafted from rose petals on the small table by his hip. Beside it was a sketch depicting a fearsome beast – one Clarke knew had taken him no more than ten minutes to do. Murphy stepped forwards after he’d gestured to it, “There is power in creating something terrifying.”

Then, without warning, he crushed the sculpture with his fist and tore the sketch into two pieces, speaking once more, “And there is power in destroying that which we have made. Before anybody asks, no. Don’t worry. I don’t have kids. If I did, though, I’m sure they’d do a fine job of destroying themselves.”

The crowd responded with scattering laughter, hanging onto every word he spoke, every grin he flashed.

“There are two types of power; power which is given to us by others and power which we already have within us. The purpose of this exhibition is to demonstrate new images of power; to make you think. To experience power in its many forms. I also request that you think not only about the power that we can seize for ourselves, but the power we can give those around us. Thank you.” He paused for the applause, waiting for it to fade before he indicated to Clarke who stood loyally at the side-lines, “Tonight, I introduce one of my very own, Clarke Griffin, who brings to the world unimaginable talent and brings to me unimaginable pride. Please do take the time to view her phenomenal featured exposition of power. Now, go and enjoy yourselves and enjoy the champagne, and please come chew on our ears – not literally, though. Or, at least, not this early on in the evening. Wait until I’ve had a couple more glasses first.”

The crowd applauded him again, accompanied with jovial laughter and cheers. The moment the viewers dispersed, Murphy returned to Clarke, straightening out his bowtie and accepting a champagne with hearty gratitude, “Thank god that’s over. Did I do alright?”

She sipped her drink, waiting for him to take another breath before she inclined her head, “You slayed, yet again. Also, on the subject,” she raised an eyebrow, “I bring you unimaginable pride, do I?”

He rolled his eyes, a shaky breath of laughter leaving his lungs, “Don’t let it get to your head, Griffin. This building isn’t big enough for _both_ our egos.”

“Oh, but it is.” She turned with Murphy to receive various greetings of various guests, some of which she recognised to be well-renowned artists and critiques. The two of them often participated in a game of Spot the Rich Man. Of course, the majority of the attendees all had enough wealth to line their pockets and the pockets of everybody else, too. But usually, they were also the people that had a very real interest in art. There were those that didn’t know what else to do with their money except to take their dates to an exhibition to feign a taste in culture. They weren’t always men, either. They just found the pretentious women harder to identify than the men, for one reason or another.

“That one.” Murphy indicated to a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, pocket watch and all, pointing to various displays with all the airs and graces he could muster. His date, probably half his age, just nodded along, vaguely impressed, but mostly just vague.

“Oh, without a doubt. That one, too.” She nodded her head to another gentleman, this one younger than the one before. He was observing the other people more than he was observing the art, clearly hoping to pick up some tips on how to behave at an art exhibition.

He laughed, breaking away to lead a smooth conversation with an artist from Paris, before he eventually turned back to Clarke, “Hey, where’s Lexa?”

“What?”

“Lexa. Where is she? I thought she was coming.”

Clarke sighed, shaking her head, “I’ve barely heard from her. I can’t imagine that she would attend, though.”

“Why not?” He frowned.

“I don’t know. It isn’t a priority for her, I don’t think.” She shrugged, trying to push aside the irritation that prodded uncomfortably at her chest.

“Really?” His eyebrows shot upwards, “Why?”

“She has other things to worry about, presumably.”

Once again, they both broke away from conversation to engage in charming interaction with more attendees. It happened far more frequently than usual due to the size of the crowd. Murphy and Clarke normally found themselves with plenty of spare time for bitching.

“What, have you fallen out, or something?” He asked, once the crowds were absorbed by the exhibition.

“You make it sound like we’re back at elementary school.”

“Can’t relate. I went to primary school along with the rest of England.”

“Damn limey.”

“Bloody yank.”

Murphy’s insult was finalised with a wide smile to another colleague of his and a handshake.

“So, what’s the gossip, then?” He pushed, once the man had passed by.

Clarke sighed, taking another glass of champagne as the server walked by her, “There isn’t any. I just don’t know if she will turn up or not. Now, I’m going to go and examine your glorious artwork and leave you to network in peace.”

“I’ll get it out of you at some point, Griffin.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” She smiled, patting his shoulder before she pulled away, going to admire the talents of her tutor. He spared no effort on every piece he produced. Clarke was greeted by a number of the attendees, some mentioning only her sculpture and others mentioning only her father’s name. She quickly tired of the recognition, as she expected she would, and picked herself up another glass of champagne.

She chanced a glance over to her sculpture, which had gathered quite a group around it. In a way, she despised it, now. The power she had seen in Lexa was certainly profound, so profound that it would probably haunt her for years to come. Even now, she was consumed by it. She hated it. Maybe she should have stopped placing so much value in connections with other people and focus on running Arcadia instead. Focus on her art. Focus on meeting her father’s expectations.

But, really, she knew that when Death dipped his fingers into her lungs to steal her last breath, the thing that would matter to her the most would be that she loved and was loved. If she lived her life for everybody else, she would end up breaking her own heart.

She broke away from the sculpture and turned to step into the next section of Murphy’s exhibition, finding herself facing the inspiration herself. Her breath lodged somewhere in her throat at their sudden proximity, as though the violinist had been plucked from Clarke’s mind and placed directly in front of her. Even in her imagination, though, she couldn’t have invented the way she looked tonight; long hair swept around one side of her neck, falling over her shoulder in loose curls. The lengthy black dress left her legs a mystery, but exposed the tan of her arms and back. Her pale eyes were a stark contrast to the smoky powder above her lashes. She was flawless and Clarke hated it.

“Hello, Clarke.” Lexa spoke first, her eyes drifting over the artist’s features.

It was fortunate she had already swallowed her last mouthful of champagne or it may well have ended up sprayed all over the floor.

Quickly recalling herself, she raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t think you were going to show.”

She didn’t give much time for the brunette to respond, already moving onto the next display, breaking eye contact completely. It was partially because she wanted to depict nonchalance, and partially because she was afraid of what she would see if she spent a moment longer in the depths of Lexa’s gaze.

“I can only apologise for disappointing you in that case.”

Clarke scoffed, pretending to read the description of the painting in front of her, “At least you’re consistent with it.”

“At least there’s that.”

Clarke wanted desperately to ignore her, to walk away, but she couldn’t. She’d never been able to, really. Carefully, she angled her head towards her, “Lexa, why are you here?”

“I wanted to offer you my congratulations. That, and I told you I would come.”

“Oh, so you’re here for me?” She asked, letting the sarcasm roll off her tongue, “There’s honour amongst thieves, after all.”

Lexa didn’t seem impressed but she acknowledged she’d probably deserved the dig with a minor tilt of her head, “Apparently so.”

“You’re not just here to get in on the limelight, then?”

Lexa took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly, “No, Clarke. I’m not. I thought you would at least know me better than that.”

Clarke couldn’t seem to stop herself from laughing, but it was harsh and cold, “You thought I would – Jesus. _Know_ you, Lexa? Know _you_? Tell me the last time you ever _let_ anybody actually know you.”

She paused, full lips parted, soundless.

“Well?”

Still, she said nothing.

“Right. As I thought.” She shook her head, a hard smile on her mouth, “How could I possibly know you? The second I got close to it you ran.”

Lexa’s gaze flickered to Clarke’s left ear, evidently trying to work out something to say, but it was too late, “I, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what, Lexa? Throw our friendship in my face and then try to hold a natural conversation with me afterwards? I probably wouldn’t know how to do that either.”

“Clarke, please, can we talk about this?” She managed.

Clarke broke away, a warm smile gracing her lips as she eloquently accepted praise from a well-established artist. He had travelled all the way from Italy and certainly seemed to like what he saw from across the seas. He allowed himself plenty of eyefuls of the two young ladies standing beside each other.

“And you, you are the sculpture, yes?” He fixed his gaze on Lexa with emphatic interest.

She inclined her head, “I am.”

“Of course.” He tapped his nose, gesturing between the two of them, “You are very close, yes? Such intimacy. Such beauty. Such _talent_.” He clasped his hand together, turning back to Clarke and her chest, “ _Eccellente_.”

“ _Grazie, Signore De Luca_.” She bowed her head forward in appreciation. 

He laughed, waggling his finger, “Ah, she knows! Yes, _magnifica_.” 

Clarke waited until he had sauntered past to the next viewing, hounding a waitress for more champagne, until she glanced back at the violinist, “My answer is no. We can’t talk about this. You have literally had over a week to seek me out and talk. That’s all I wanted. You didn’t even reply to my last message. Couldn’t answer one question. Right now, I am supporting my tutor in his most successful exhibition. Essentially, I am at work. If you are here to support him, I respect that fully. If not, you have fulfilled your promise to me now, so you can go. Feel free to leave.”

Lexa looked as if she wanted to say something further; Clarke could see the flash of heat behind her eyes, but her jaw snapped shut. Despite her proclamations that she did not and could not know the enigma before her, Clarke knew far more than she could ever admit to herself. The conflict was so deep-rooted in Lexa’s stare, the tension between them unbearable. She knew that the violinist was far less committed to her decision than she wanted anybody else to know. But Clarke wasn’t one to play games, certainly not with Lexa. Not when she changed the rules as often as she did.

“That’s not – I don’t _want_ to leave, Clarke.”

“No? You don’t?”

“No.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“No.” Lexa repeated.

“Really? The last I heard, you _wanted_ to do this on your own.” She shrugged, easily.

The violinist tilted her head marginally to one side, “It isn’t as simple as that, Clarke.”

“Right. Okay, so, what is it you do want? Tell me. I’m listening.” She kept her tone hushed and her posture relaxed. The last thing they needed was to cause a spectacle at Murphy’s exhibition. She tried to see beyond the conflict in Lexa’s pale stare, but came up empty. “Nothing? As I thought. You say _I_ take this personally, which I do, but I’m not the only one, Lexa. You think I can’t see that this is tearing you up inside? I know you’re scared but there’s nothing I can do to help with that until you decide what it is you actually want. When you’ve figured it out, and I mean _really_ figured it out, come let me know. I mean that but until then, I can’t…” She took a step back, “I don’t have the time or the energy for this.”

The brunette could barely even open her lips, the surprise etched deep into subarctic green, and Clarke could feel her stare pinned to the back of her head as she walked away.

The rest of the exhibition panned out well enough. Clarke was only just able to maintain her professionalism, something Lexa rarely lost, even for a moment. As it drew to a close, she found herself nearing exhaustion. She had stretched herself between people, making many useful connections with a variety of the attendees. She’d tried not to notice Lexa’s presence but found it harder not to look for her even after she’d left.

“Griffin, oi!” Once the dribs and drabs of attendees had finally left the gallery, Murphy dropped down onto one of the leather sofas in the lounge with his fifth or sixth glass of champagne, “Get your arse over here.”

She did as he willed, taking one of the remaining glasses for herself as she joined him on the sofa.

“Guess what?” She barely had the time to even open her lips before he pushed on, “We’re going to Italy and Switzerland.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She blinked twice.

“I said: We are going to Italy and Switzerland.”

“Yes, I thought that’s what you’d said.” She bit her lip, watching Murphy’s chest rising and falling in excitement, “So, do I get any more information, or…?”

“Do you need any more?” He asked, disbelievingly.

“It would help knowing when to pack.” She shrugged.

He grinned around the rim of his champagne glass, eyes twinkling, “Thursday. We are going on Thursday.”

“How?”

“Plane. How else?”

“I meant why?”

Murphy gestured behind them in the general direction of his exhibition, “Art.”

“I suppose boat would be an option.”

“Yes, or the Eurostar, but that’s not important right now. We are going by plane.”

Clarke nodded, slowly. She was still trying to process it all. Her head was still messy, filled with anger and filled with Lexa. “How is it all getting over there?”

He stared at her, blankly, “You know, you really ask the strangest questions. Boat, probably.”

“Does that make you anxious? What if the boat sinks?”

He shrugged, “What if our plane crashes? What if the world explodes? Listen, if they can recover the naked picture of Rose from Titanic at the bottom of the ocean after 80 years, then they can damn well recover my artwork.”

“That was fictional, though.”

He seemed unperturbed, “Again, not important right now. What’s important is that you and I are going on a little tour. We will be gone from this shite hole, no offence, for six nights. Rome for three, then Geneva for three.”

“None taken. Who’s arranging it all?”

“De Luca said his wife wanted to come to see the exhibition but she couldn’t make it due to work, or something.”

“De Luca has a wife?” Clarke grimaced, “And she _works_?”

“Don’t be judgemental, Griffin. She’s an artist, too. A good one at that. Remind me not to fanboy when I see her.”

“To be fair, I think I would work if the alternative was staying at home with him.” She shrugged, reasonably, “Anyway, I couldn’t stop you fanboying even if I was built like ten men.”

“True. Anyway, Segal overheard, got all stressed about his ego and requested that we take the exhibition to Geneva to his ‘humble’ gallery, he calls it, afterwards. I can assure you it is anything but humble. One of the most famous galleries in Europe.”

She took a few breaths before releasing a groan, “Fine. Okay. I was supposed to be having a meeting this Friday with the board, though.”

Murphy just snorted, “Who cares? Conference call or cancel. Fuck your meeting. Fuck the board.”

“Fuck the board.” She agreed, finishing off her drink. Secretly, though, she wondered if the board would even miss her at the meetings. That could have been paranoia.

But, then again, maybe it wasn’t.

They sat in silence for a while until Murphy eventually piped up once more, “So, Lexa showed in the end, then.”

“Mm.” Clarke nodded, feigning disinterest.

“Did you speak to her?”

“Mm.” She repeated.

“The crowds adored your piece, Griffin. You’ve made a shit-tonne of money off that, you know.”

“Yes.” She muttered, “I know, goddammit.”

“What, why? Why is God damning it?”

She tilted back her head, “Because I now have a constant reminder that I owe Lexa a lot more than I want to. Not because of the money. That doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s because you’re filthy rich.”

“It doesn’t go to me, Murphy. It goes to the family. To this place. You know that.”

“Of which you are now in charge of, essentially.”

“Don’t let my mother hear you say that.” Clarke returned, staring up at the extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“This is a huge success.” Murphy nudged her thigh with his knee, “So, why does your face look like a slapped arse?”

“Like a slapped…” She blinked and shook her head, “That’s just my face, Murph.”

“I’ve seen your face lots of times, Griffin, and this is not _just_ your face.”

She groaned, moodily, “Look, Lexa and I had an argument at Raven’s party and it was stupid and I was stupid. Anyway, she got drunk and realised she couldn’t afford to be hungover the next day and got pissed off because I was the one who asked her to the party. She now doesn’t want to be friends because she thinks I’m a distraction to her career, or whatever.”

“God, that really does sound just like primary school all over again.”

“You turned up to primary school hungover?”

“Less times than I turned up drunk, so there’s that.” He frowned, “And you, you want to be friends with her still?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

He shrugged, “Not in the grand scheme of things because we all die eventually and life is pointless, but it matters to you right now, so.”

“Thanks for the optimism, and yes, I want to be friends with her.” She sighed, quietly, “Or, at least, I did. I just can’t afford to be friends with somebody who I don’t trust. I don’t have time for people to be friends with me one minute and then turn on me the next. I need people around me I can trust. Especially considering what I do.”

“Look, I don’t really know what sort of friendship you have with Lexa – or, rather, _had_. All I know is that I’ve seen the two of you together and it’s, it’s just…” He paused, “I can’t describe it. Powerful, I guess, which is relevant to today. I can see where she’s coming from. You _do_ distract her. You might think I don’t notice but I do.”

“Notice what?” She lifted her head up from the back of the sofa to look at him.

“When I sketched her for the first time, she was immovable. When you were there, every time you spoke, something about her would change. I couldn’t tell you what it was exactly. Maybe in her eyes. I don’t know.” He shrugged, “I can’t work the two of you out, I really can’t. But I know you meant _something_ to each other and I think it would be a shame to let that go.”

“I didn’t let it go, Murphy. _She_ did.”

“Yes, she did. You’re right. I’m not saying she went about it the right way, but it’s hardly a conventional situation, is it? Besides, she came here today.” He pointed out as though this was new and enlightening information.

“She sure did and I’ve never been more confused about something she’s done before. I don’t deal well with all these mixed messages, you know?”

Murphy inclined his head, slowly, “I get that, but try see it from her eyes, okay?”

“I don’t want to.” She muttered, petulantly.

He continued, regardless, “You are Jake Griffin’s daughter and – no, don’t pull that sour face at me – you are. You have more influence over everything than anyone. If I hadn’t known you since you first came over here and I just met you today, you would scare the bejesus out of me. You are influential, drop- dead gorgeous, smart, funny _and_ talented. You check all the boxes. Twice. On top of that, you’re actually annoyingly nice which is ridiculous and unnecessary and it’s enough to make the rest of us want to vomit. You have rarely been an extra in someone else’s life. I’m sure Lexa would love to hate you as much as I do but she probably can’t.” He smirked when she clipped his elbow, “Kidding, jeez. You know, she’s probably as nice as you underneath all her frightening exterior. She’s moved over here with nobody and she’s made friends with the biggest character she could have possibly made friends with, and that was by accident. That’s huge. It’s enough to distract anybody, even with all your weird chemistry aside.”

Clarke sighed, “So, John Murphy you all-knowing bastard, what are you suggesting I do?”

He laughed, “Fuck me, if I knew.”

“Insightful, thanks.” She tilted her head back once again, “I told her to think about what she wanted and come find me when she knew.”

“So, be patient. If she comes and finds you, give her the chance to talk. If she sacks it off, then do what you want. Be passive aggressive every time you see her or something, I don’t know. She’s learning and so are you.”

“Well, enough about me, anyway. Congratulations to you. You did amazing tonight. Rome and Geneva are a pretty huge deal, huh?” 

He smiled lightly, “I mean, not especially. I’ve toured before but it’s been a while.”

“And not with me, either.”

“I know, you’re going to hate it.” He laughed.

“Undoubtedly.”

After a while of sitting side by side, Clarke eventually stretched and stood up, “Well, it’s time for bed, I think.”

“You doing sessions tomorrow?”

“Yep. You going to lounge around drinking expensive wine all day?”

He grinned and rose to his feet, “Absolutely. I’ve earned it. Besides, working on a Sunday is for nerds.”

She couldn’t dispute that.

Even in the days that followed, Clarke found herself weighed by her schedule. Nobody had thought to let her know how much work her father had created for himself to do. Fortunately, there were plenty of others she could delegate to. Besides, she was a figure, just a representation. The real work was left to the members of the board. Clarke just had to oversee it all, give her seal of approval, and the job was a good one.

At least, that’s what the members wanted her to think. That way, they could continue with their own agendas and report back to Clarke that everything was going swimmingly just as long as they were getting what they wanted. In some regard, she worried the other directors viewed her as the silhouette of a mascot.

But, in the wise words of John Murphy, ‘fuck the board’.


	16. Chapter 15 - The Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you all so much. I can hardly express how grateful I am for your support. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your comments and I promise I will try and get around to responding to them when my cognition is less impaired. I appreciate the kindness you've all shown to me. You're truly a wonderful bunch. 
> 
> I do apologise if there are some errors - I have tried to edit it the best I can in my current condition (I am slowly getting through the worst of it, so hopefully it's all uphill from here!).
> 
> I also just wanted to mention that I am incredibly happy that you are all so patient with the progression of this story and the careful discovery of the characters. I know it can be frustrating but I promise I will tend to your wishes in due time.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Thanks again.
> 
> xox

“ _So, tell us everything_.”

Clarke settled herself back into her excessively large bed, directing her phone screen towards her face with a grin. Raven and Octavia were seated together on Raven’s sofa, the tablet balanced on the coffee table to fit them both in on the camera, both dressed in their pyjamas.

“I mean, I’m not sure it’s quite as exciting here in lovely warm Italy as it is at your slumber party.”

“ _Slumber party_.” Raven smirked, “ _God, I miss your American face._ ”

“It’s my second night away.” She quirked an eyebrow, reaching over to polish off the remainder of her drink.

“ _Yes, but it’s been like, what, two weeks since we saw you last. I’ve been sexually frustrated without you._ ”

Octavia grimaced, “ _She isn’t lying_.”

Raven decided that they’d probably return to that subject later and impatiently clapped her hands, “ _Come on, Griffin. How was the exhibition?_ ”

“Well, we’ve just got in from it now, actually. We went a little hard on the Italian wine. It went really well, actually. He seemed to hit it off with some pretty important folks and De Luca’s wife, too. So, I’m really pleased for him.”

“ _And what about you?_ ” Octavia picked up her gin and tonic from the coffee table, “ _Did you hit it off with anybody?_ ”

She shrugged, “I mean, I guess so. They seemed impressed with the sculpture and pretty keen to talk about it in detail so, you know.”

“ _Well, that’s grand,_ ” She nodded, sipping her drink before continuing, “ _but what about all the Italian artists? Haven’t you been seduced by any of them, yet?_ ”

“Um, no.” Clarke released a breath of laughter, “I’ve barely had time to speak to one person for longer than five minutes, let alone sleep with them.”

Aside from De Luca himself; he had shamelessly flirted with her in front of his wife after a couple of wines. She decided not to share that information, though. De Luca wasn’t an achievement and he definitely hadn’t managed to seduce her.

“ _You only need five minutes_.” Raven shrugged.

“Raven, babe, it upsets me to know you have been so deprived.” Clarke exhaled in despair, “It really does.”

“ _All I’m saying is that banging bod of yours is going to waste_.”

“Ah, because that’s all I should be using my body for.” She snorted.

“ _Didn’t you know?_ ” Octavia smirked, “ _The sole purpose of the human body is to have a series of disappointing five-minute shags and then, ultimately, death._ ”

“Oh, wow.” Clarke raised her eyebrows, “What a finale. So, enough about my boring business trip, what’s been happening since I last saw y’all?”

“ _Oh, god, she’s been drinking. Tennessee is coming out, y’all._ ” Octavia giggled, pouring herself some more gin.

“Sure look it, leprechaun.” Clarke returned with a teasing smile, failing to mimic her friend’s Irish accent.

“ _You tried._ ” She stuck her thumb up in sarcastic encouragement, “ _We saw Wells actually. He crawled out of his dark little hole and joined us for a drink last night_.”

“Ah, is that because Murphy and I are away?”

Raven nodded, “ _Yeah, it’s the only bait we could think to use._ ”

She nodded in understanding, “I get it. Is he, I mean, he alright or…?”

Octavia chewed her lower lip in thought before answering, “ _He’s still finding things tough but I don’t think it’ll be long before he comes around._ ”

Clarke exhaled and sank her head deeper into the pillows, “God, I hope so.”

“ _On another note, Ray slept with my brother._ ”

Instantly a nervous grin took hold of the darker haired girl’s mouth, her cheeks reddening.

“Okay, what?”

Octavia glanced at her friend, critically, “ _Oh, you heard, Griffin_.”

“What about Kyle?”

“ _Fuck Kyle, what about me?_ ” Octavia shook her head.

“I’m sure she’ll sleep with you one day, too.”

“ _Not helping anything, Griffin._ ”

Raven groaned and waved a hand awkwardly in front of her, “ _Kyle disappeared. Ghosted me for days. Bellamy was pining over Echo and we were drunk._ ” She shot a sideways look at her friend before announcing, “ _Actually, it was much more enjoyable than I_ –”

“– _Don’t_.” Octavia held up a hand.

Raven smiled innocently at the camera, “ _And he is actually really well hung, so_ –”

“– _Nope! Don’t need to know!_ ” The youngest Blake sibling covered her face up with her hands, probably regretting her decision to bring up the subject.

Raven continued to make an appreciative gesture with her hand, “ _And oh my, he did this thing with_ –”

Octavia whacked her arm with a cushion, sparing no force, “– _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Reyes!_ ”

“ _You brought it up_.” Raven giggled, despite the sudden impact of the cushion, “ _Just like I brought Bellamy up, if you know what I mean_.”

“ _Yes, we_ all _know what you mean, slag._ ”

“ _I came three times, you know. Three!_ ”

“Surely not in the space of five minutes, though.” Clarke felt her stomach shaking with laughter, more so at the sickened expression on Octavia’s face.

“ _Anyway,_ ” the latter attempted to push forward a different conversation, “ _the film shooting is going nicely. We’ve done a lot of the bulk of it. Excitingly, we will be heading to New Zealand in a couple of weeks for some of the scenes_.”

“And I thought I was exotic going to Italy.” The blonde raised her eyebrows, “Seriously, though, that’s amazing. You’re actually gonna be super famous soon, aren’t ya, huh?”

Octavia shrugged, a small smile betraying her, “ _It’s a step in the right direction. Not sure I’ll quite be Griffin-famous, but baby steps._ ”

She grimaced, “It really ain’t all that.”

Raven nudged Octavia’s arm lightly, “ _So long as you both invite me to all the exclusive VIP parties…_ ”

“You can go in my place, Ray.”

She laughed, “ _I mean, we do look exactly alike, right? Anyway, so what’s the plan for the rest of your time in Italy?_ ”

“Well, tomorrow we are dining with De Luca and his wife. Then, first thing the next morning, we’re heading on over to Geneva.”

“ _Ooh, will you bring me back some Toblerone, please?_ ” Raven asked, “ _One of each kind?_ ”

“I did buy you one from Duty Free already, actually.”

Her eyebrows raised, impressed, “ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah, but I got snacky on the last night and ate it.”

“ _Oh, wow. I’m touched_.”

“You sure were touched,” Clarke provided a wicked grin, eyes sparkling, “by Bellamy Blake.”

“ _Griffin, I swear to God!_ ”

Once Octavia had finished blaspheming and their conversation rounded to a close, Clarke was able to retire to sleep fairly quickly. Her and Murphy spent the majority of the following day wandering around the streets of Rome, participating in all the tourist experiences that they could. He even tried to get himself a light tan; Clarke could practically hear his milk-bottle skin crying out for Vitamin D. She tanned fairly easily and was already feeling much healthier than she had since the start of winter. Now part way through spring, Clarke found her spirits lifting in preparation for summer. She missed the sun something dreadful. She had reminded Murphy that it was only just reaching the 20℃ mark but he had rightly returned that anything higher than 15℃ was a bonus.

Dinner was, in a word, exquisite. The De Lucas spared no expense, purchasing the best bottles and the fanciest dishes. Murphy lapped it all up as though he expected nothing less – which, thinking about it, he probably didn’t expect anything less. Murphy found it really quite easy to be treated like a celebrity, as if he was born for such a role. If there was one thing he adored, it was being spoiled. Clarke was observing through her peripherals, seated beside him at the table. Despite his ability to naturally adapt to any social situation, she couldn’t help but notice the covert signs of his nervousness. They were subtle and Clarke only recognised them because she had seen them countless times before his speeches. The back of his neck burned red every time De Luca’s wife flickered her eyes over to him.

“Emori,” Clarke began once there was a break in De Luca’s one-sided conversation, directing her attention to his wife, “I didn’t get the proper opportunity to speak to you last night about your art but I wanted to mention how inspirational your creations are. Truly. John and I couldn’t help but admire them in your gallery.”

She inclined her head to Clarke, “I appreciate that. Of course, my husband and I are more than delighted to receive the honour of two such sensational artists, too.”

It was not a figment of her imagination when Emori’s eyes lingered on Murphy’s as her lips formed the word “sensational”. She knew, deep in her chest, that if her tutor wasn’t already enamoured, he would be now. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak.

“It’s a shame we have to leave so soon.” Clarke smiled, “It really has been a magnificent experience. We cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”

De Luca grinned, swallowing another large mouthful of wine. He had single-handedly managed to get down the entirety of the third bottle ordered to the table and was already calling on another, “More?” He topped Clarke’s glass up and she politely took a sip, knowing how early she had to be up the next morning. She was rather hoping to maintain her sobriety. Saying that, De Luca was quite the challenge to deal with from a sober perspective. He was gradually getting redder in the cheeks and less capable of concealing the lustful grins he reserved for Clarke from across the table.

“Perhaps it’s time to pay the bill?” Emori suggested, her eyes switching between her dearly beloved and Clarke, although the latter suspected the former’s cheeks were pink for a different reason altogether. Murphy was blushing, too. She rather hoped to be able to focus on something other than the connection between the two established artists but the alternative was to focus on the disinhibition of De Luca himself.

“ _Che sciocchezze! Che assurdità!_ We still have wine!”

Emori closed her eyes tentatively, “We have wine at home, Franc. Our guests need to be up very early.”

He grunted, swallowing the last of the liquid in his glass and signalling carelessly with his hand for the waiter.

Once the meal had been paid for and De Luca was stuffed like a Tetris block into their private car, Clarke stepped away to allow Murphy to whisper ardent goodbyes to Emori. She sighed, shaking her head slightly. He always went for the wrong ones. Not that she could pass judgement in that department but, even so, he was setting himself up for heartbreak. Regardless, he used every ounce of his charm and it was working. Emori went to kiss him on the cheek, her lips grazing the space just by his mouth. It was fortunate De Luca was almost passed out in the backseat. Clarke sure didn’t envy her duties for that evening.

“Just about all romanced out now, are we?” She asked once Murphy had joined her in the cab. He simply looked subdued. “Hey, you okay?” She frowned.

“She’s different, Griff. She deserves better than _that_ thing.”

Clarke couldn’t disagree.

“Will you see her again?” She asked, softly.

“God, I hope so. I really do.” He murmured, turning his head to watch her through the window as they drove on by. She was standing outside the car door, her eyes fixed intently on his over the roof until they rounded the corner.

“Invite her to London.”

He shrugged, limply, “So her big brute of a husband can lumber after her?”

“Oh, he would be easy to take care of. Stock him up on alcohol, wait until he passes out, and then the night is yours.”

He thought about this before glancing at her, “You’d really help me develop a master plan?”

“You know you don’t have to ask me that.” She returned. It didn’t completely eradicate the melancholic expression on his features but it seemed to ease the weight from his shoulders a little.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Had Clarke realised the impact of her words, she might have thought twice before suggesting it; not because she was rattled with Murphy’s moral code when it came to the next morning. It was because, when she knocked on his door to prompt him it was time for checkout, she could hear him scrambling around, swearing to himself. It was because Murphy was late packing and _that_ was because Murphy had been up all night, otherwise preoccupied.

“ _Just a minute, Griffin!_ ” He yelled from the confines of his hotel room.

“Come on, Murphy!” She knocked on the door three minutes later when he hadn’t surfaced, “We’re late!”

“ _Can you – erm – can you wait downstairs, or…?_ ”

“Just get your ass out here!”

And he did. But he was not alone.

Emori walked from his hotel room alongside him, just as flustered as he was.

Consequentially, they almost missed their flight.

_That_ was why Clarke was rattled.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to use that master plan quite so soon.” Clarke mentioned as they finally got seated on the plane following the mad rush of passing through security and the long run to their gate.

Murphy couldn’t help but grin as he fastened his seatbelt, “You’re a genius.”

“And you’re an idiot. We almost missed this plane.”

“All in the name of love, Griffin. All in the name of love.”

“All in the name of my ass.” But she was smiling despite herself and he knew she was. He leaned over to press a fond kiss to her head at the feigned grumpy response, “It better have been worth it.”

“Oh.” He smirked, tilting his head back into his flight cushion, “It was.”

She wasn’t really mad because she knew underneath it all that if somebody deserved happiness, that somebody was John Murphy, even if he also sometimes deserved a slap too.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Clarke found Geneva to be a breath-taking city, situated by a clear blue lake and enveloped by the distant and steadfast mountains. It was considerably chillier than it had been in Rome, which Clarke should have been disappointed by, but was altogether too charmed with the city to really mind. She came to realise that it wasn’t just the city she was taken with but also some of the people too.

Segal had introduced Murphy nicely to the captive audience in his gallery. Clarke had supported him through their usual ritual and he had smoothly managed to conclude his speech without flaw. Ordinarily, Murphy absorbed the attention of the entire room but this time, she could feel a set of eyes remaining on her throughout the introduction from across the space. On a couple of occasions, she had allowed their gazes to meet, more out of curiosity than anything else.

He was young with watery blue eyes, sandy hair trimmed neatly around the back and sides of his head, but longer on top. He had styled it well, looking as if he was featured in that week’s issue of Vogue. To look at, he wasn’t necessarily Clarke’s type. He was a little on the skinny side. She could tell by the sharp cut of his jaw and the hollow of his cheekbones. That aside, there was something intriguing in the way he smiled.

Once the attendees set about viewing the exhibition, he made his way towards her with just the right amount of confidence, “Hello.” He greeted, and Clarke immediately picked up on his gentle French accent, “You are Clarke Griffin?”

She inclined her head, “I am.”

“You are the creator of the Commander, no?” He gestured towards the clay sculpture.

Clarke nodded again, this time with a small tilt to her lips, “I am.”

He smiled, the warmth touching his eyes, “I was drawn to it the minute I step foot here. It is remarkable.”

“Thank you.”

“Ah, you have met my son, then!” Segal joined the two of them, gesturing to the pleasant young man standing opposite her.

“Yes, only just, although he hadn’t quite gotten around to telling me he was your son.” She let her eyes flicker teasingly to the blond.

Segal shook his head, smiling fondly at him, “Where are your manners, Karl?”

“I was trying to be charming first. She might have been put off me once she found out where I came from.”

Clarke laughed, her eyebrows raising in surprised amusement at the gentle exchange between the two. Segal was far more relaxed in the comforts of his own glorious gallery than he had been in London and he grinned widely, “I am enough to put any young lady off. Forgive me. I simply wanted to congratulate you once again, Miss Griffin.”

“Thank you.” She bowed her head, graciously.

Once Segal strode away, Karl returned his attention towards her, “I wondered if you might have the time to discuss your sculpture after the exhibition with me?”

Clarke wasn’t thinking things through particularly thoroughly when she consented. But, consent, she did.

“Excellent. I will let you mingle. I know you are a very sought-after woman.” He smiled, “I will meet you in the lobby at the close?”

“Sure.” Clarke consented, yet again.

Towards the end of the exhibition, Murphy gravitated towards her, “Somebody seems to have made a friend.”

“They do?” She asked, turning towards him as they wandered to the lobby.

“Yes, you. Karl Segal has been singing your praises all evening. I hear it from a reliable source, who also so happens to be Karl Segal, that you are meeting with him after the exhibition.”

“Apparently so.”

Murphy nodded, patting her shoulder, “You let me know when you’re back at the hotel room safe, alright?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

Karl was waiting for her by the doors, his coat hanging over his arm. As Clarke approached him, she was suddenly prompted to register his height. He was taller than she’d realised. Almost faltering as he offered her a white-toothed smile, Clarke reached for her coat. She was an aesthete, after all.

“Hello again.” She managed as he helped her slide her arms into the sleeves.

“Hello again.” He put his own coat on as they stepped out into the night, “I know a nice bar just around the corner. I thought maybe you would like it.”

Indeed, it was as close as he had said. The bar looked out onto the lake, the clear surface reflecting the bright city lights. Karl opened the door for her and allowed her to step into the warmth of the venue first. The music was loud enough to be heard but not so loud to be intrusive. He directed her to a table, asking what she would like to drink as he draped his coat over the back of his chair.

“Um, beer?”

He raised his eyebrows, “Beer? Are you sure? Not wine?”

She shrugged, “I don’t drink very much wine.”

His mouth dropped open in endearing surprise, “Really? You don’t like wine?”

“I mean, it’s alright as drinks go. It just isn’t my favourite.”

Karl laughed freely, “Beer over wine? Is this because you are American?”

“It is because I am not as cultured as people think I am.” She returned with a smirk, “What are you drinking? Wine?”

His grin remained and he shook his head, “No. I hate wine.”

She couldn’t help but laugh gently, “ _Now_ you tell me. What do you like?”

“I like the fruity drinks.” He said, excitedly, “Cocktails.”

“Alright, I’ll have a fruity cocktail with you, then.”

He nodded, satisfied, “Yes. Good. You can have beer later. I want you to try the strawberry daiquiri from here.” He went to the bar to order, soon after returning with both drinks, “And it is exciting because you get real strawberries in it, look.”

Clarke couldn’t help but watch him with a growing fondness as he picked out a strawberry, first checking to make sure nobody was looking. He popped it into his mouth with a grin, “See? It’s so good. You do it, go on.”

“I mean, sure.” Clarke didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t quite the bold move he seemed to think it was and put on a bit of a show for him instead as she took a strawberry from the drink, “Actually, you’re right, that’s very good.”

“Yes!” He clapped his hands together, “It’s good, right?”

She had another lengthy sip of the drink before Karl’s expression turned solemn.

“I wanted to say I was very sorry to hear about the passing of your father. He was an excellent man. Very talented.”

“Thank you. He was.” Clarke agreed, automatically.

“But you, Clarke, your art is incredible. I have followed some of your work for a while.” He paused, taking a drink before continuing, “Tell me about your sculpture. What inspired you?”

Clarke took a sip of her drink, her thoughts drifting to Lexa. She had managed to get through their trip with very little thought of her, aside from the obvious times when her sculpture was on display, and it had been nice. It was refreshing.

“What inspired me?” She took another drink, the coldness of the cocktail slipping slowly down her throat, “The sculpture is based on a violinist I know.”

A waiter came by their table and placed a basket of gorgeously presented sliced bread and small pots of jam between them. Karl thanked him and turned to Clarke, still excited.

“Zopf bread.” He urged, “You have to try it.”

“You ordered this for us?”

“Yes, yes. Go on.” He nodded, taking a slice for himself and dipping it into the jam, “So, this violinist, what is her name?”

Clarke did as he suggested, sampling the bread and jam, “Her name is Lexa Woods. My father scouted her from the states to come to Arcadia. When I first saw her play, it was at The Grand Arcadian Promenade just after he passed away last year.”

He nodded his head, listening intently, an invitation for Clarke to continue.

“When she stepped out onto the stage, she carried herself so beautifully, so perfectly. There was this silence while she held the entire nation in the palm of her hand.” Clarke swallowed as she recalled the memory, knowing she had Karl’s full attention but barely even noticing his presence as she spoke, “The moment you hear her play, you are submitted entirely to her control and, the thing is, she knows. She knows. You can see it in her eyes. When she holds that instrument, she _knows_ she will pull you asunder. She can keep you captive and she can pick you apart with one simple look, with one simple note. She knows it will ruin you and she does it anyway.”

Karl’s jaw was slack, the watery blue of his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Clarke’s. He wanted to hear more. He was desperate for it. Willingly, she continued.

“She can tear your heart out of your chest with one stroke of her bow but, in the next, she can soothe that very same gaping wound she’s created and you even thank her for it. You thank her for it because nobody has ever touched you like that before. Nobody could ever touch you like that again.”

Karl took a slow breath, evidently overcome by either the image of the violinist or Clarke’s description of her, “You make her sound cruel.”

Clarke returned to the present, to Switzerland, to the table, to the man who sat opposite her with rapture on his features, “Yes. She can be.”

“But, in your sculpture, there is more. She is not just cruel, no?”

Something about Clarke’s countenance must have softened because Karl allowed himself to nod in understanding, “No. She isn’t. You know… it, it doesn’t matter how raw she has made you feel, she feels it right alongside you. She doesn’t _want_ to make you suffer for her own gain. She wants you to understand what it is to experience every capability of human emotion. I think perhaps, despite the apathy and the stoicism depicted in the sculpture, she feels more than any of us.”

“That is power.” He agreed, his voice quiet and thoughtful, “Power is not just for others. We must have power over ourselves, too. It sounds like she has both.”

And, yet, she had looked so powerless when Clarke had seen her last.

She was suddenly aware of the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t speak.

“Drink.” Karl nodded to the glass beside her hand.

She obliged, taking a long drink of the daiquiri.

“You are close with Lexa, or…?” He asked, finishing off his own cocktail.

“I, well, not particularly.”

“To create such a sculpture, you must know her well. You _must_.” He leaned forwards, slightly, “No?”

Clarke sighed, with a small smile, “I know her well enough to create a sculpture of her, yes.”

“Ah.” He nodded wisely, an intuitive sparkle in his eyes, “You care about her?”

She shrugged, her eyes meeting Karl’s, “I care about all my art.”

“No, but you care about _her_.”

She had known that was exactly what he meant and had hoped to avoid having such a conversation. It was annoying having to deal with Murphy’s intuition, never mind Karl Segal’s. In a way, it was easier with blond because he didn’t really know her like others did. He didn’t know the history between her and Lexa. Eventually, she conceded, “I do care about her, yes.”

“Yes, but you resent her at the moment?”

“Yes.”

He pondered this for a short time, going to order another round of drinks before returning, “Why do you resent her?”

“ _Because_ I care about her.” She shrugged, briefly thanking him for the drink.

“You resent everybody you care about?” He asked, an amused smile on his lips.

Clarke couldn’t help but mirror his contagious expression, “It seems so.” She glanced down at the drink in her hand for a few seconds, “I resent her because she is capable of caring for others but she won’t let herself.”

“She won’t let herself care for you?”

“I think she cares more than she allows herself to believe but she’s caught in the indecision whether it’s safe to do so, or not.” Clarke wasn’t sure how Karl had settled himself so easily into the intricate details of the connection between Clarke and Lexa but she could hardly stop herself from answering his questions, despite how uncomfortable it should have made her feel. He had seen the sculpture, though. He had _seen_ it. He had seen the detail, the layers of emotion, the intimacy.

“She has felt loss before perhaps.”

Clarke sighed, “Yes, but haven’t we all?”

He nodded, “But if it is as you say, she feels more than any of us.”

“Well, anyway, maybe you’re right. I don’t know.” She waved a hand, dismissively, “Tell me about you, Karl. What sort of art are you into?” She needed the distraction. She had given too much of herself away and now her mind was disordered.

Karl merely shrugged, “My father introduced me to all sorts of art. I do painting sometimes but actually,” he sighed, “I don’t like it so much. I prefer looking at it rather than doing it, you know?”

“You have a talent for it?” She asked.

“Others seem to think so but I don’t know.” He had another mouthful of his drink before pressing his fingertips together lightly, “I prefer writing poetry. Your sculpture is very powerful but the way you described her to me just now resonated with me more, you see?”

“I see.” She nodded, “Words do to you what images do to me.”

He agreed, clapping his palms together, “Exactly!”

They spoke at some length about poetry and the arts, Karl sheepishly sharing a few of his own stanzas with her, seeming highly pleased with himself at her approval. She would have liked to speak to him for longer but she knew it was getting late and she was getting drunk.

“I ought to be heading back to the hotel.” She told him once she’d finished her drink.

After making some light-hearted protests, he stood up and tucked his chair back under the table, “I had a really wonderful time with you.”

“Thank you. I did, too.” She meant it.

“Maybe one day I will come to visit London and see the amazing Arcadia.”

“Have you ever been before?” She asked, pulling her arms through the sleeves of her coat.

He shook his head, “No, surprisingly. I have been to many capitals of the world but not London.”

They headed out the bar together and Clarke glanced over to him as she stood outside the taxi rank, “Well, you’re always welcome to Arcadia.”

He nodded, his expression becoming thoughtful, “May I ask if your heart belongs to another?”

“Belongs to another? No. No, it doesn’t.”

He still seemed vaguely troubled, “I would like to kiss you but I, ah, I wonder if perhaps you don’t want me to?”

Clarke thought about this, but not too deeply, arching her eyebrow teasingly, “You may kiss me if you like, Karl.”

Relief flooded his expression and he leaned forwards with a grin, taking her face between his hands. She returned the kiss, knowing full well it meant very little to her. He was exciting and temporary and the kiss represented nothing more than a reflection of that. She would leave him behind with Geneva.

When he pulled away, his eyes shone, “You are incredible, Clarke Griffin. I took a business card of yours from the exhibition so I can get in touch if I am ever in England in the future.”

She smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, “Sure. Thank you for a lovely evening. Until we meet again.”

He waited until her cab had driven out of sight before he made his own way back home. Clarke considered the evening with some fondness. It had been nice to spend time with somebody a little different to her usual crowd, particularly somebody who did not make unfair judgements about her. Despite having a pleasant night, Clarke still felt the remnants of their conversation about the violinist aching somewhere in the depths of her chest. She’d thought perhaps the kiss would remove such an ache but, if anything, it only made it worse and she had been feeling it for days.

The ache remained even through until the morning although it was gradually dulling with each day that passed. Besides, she had Murphy to distract her all day. They planned on taking full advantage of the vacation, Murphy taking somewhat fuller advantage as he was already on the Bloody Marys. Clarke settled with a hot mocha, sipping at the froth as the two of them looked out onto the clear waters of the lake. It was a little chilly, but Murphy had encouraged the two of them to purchase a warm coat from the High Streets so they could enjoy Geneva in its full capacity. He said he liked how his cheeks looked when they were pinched pink with cold. Of course, Clarke gave him until lunch time before he started complaining about it.

“So, how was it?” He had turned towards her, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“What, last night?” She asked.

“Yes, last night.” He rolled his eyes.

“It was nice, actually.” She nodded, “He was really nice.”

“Yikes. Nice?” Murphy shuddered, “Here I was hoping you’d tell me all about his flaws and fetishes.”

With a click of her tongue, Clarke took another mouthful of her hot drink and let her eyes settle on the horizon, “I enjoyed it.”

“Did you like him?”

“Well enough, yes.”

“Do you _lurve_ him?”

Clarke visibly shuddered but it was unrelated to the weather, “No, and please don’t ever use that word in my presence again.”

“What, lurve?” He grinned widely.

“Yes, that.”

He opened his lungs and shouted much louder than was probably socially acceptable, attracting a few stares from the locals, “ _Luuuurrrve_?!”

“Oh, my god. Murphy, stop.” She couldn’t help but allow a small laugh to escape her mouth, shielding her face with one hand.

“Are you going to see him again?” He asked, leaning back in his chair to sip his beverage.

“Maybe.” She shrugged, “He wants to come to England at some point, so it’s possible.”

This piqued his interest and he tilted his head back towards her again, “Oh? Is it likely, I mean, do you think it could go anywhere, or…?”

She simply shook her head, subconsciously wearing a melancholy smile, “No. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want it to. I’m far too used to being alone these days.”

Murphy’s gaze slid to the water over the top of the glass, “Doesn’t a part of you long for something more?”

Clarke sighed, thinking it over before she answered, “In a way, maybe. Sometimes I have fleeting thoughts about what it would be like to be in love again, to reciprocate somebody else’s feelings. Then, I remember how much pain it brought me before, you know, when everything happened.”

Murphy nodded, reverently, “Of course. What would happen if you did fall in love? Do you think you’d try to stop it?”

“I mean, that isn’t something I can really answer. I don’t know. When I was with Finn, I thought I’d do anything for him but I realised quickly that there are some types of love that are more powerful than others. I don’t think I could stop myself from falling in love with somebody. Maybe I could try and avoid them if I felt the stirrings but I know all too well what I’m like.”

“You love deeply. You always have.”

She bowed her head forwards slightly, “Sometimes too deeply. Even so, I’m not actively searching for it. It would have to really slap me across the face to get my attention.”

“I’m always happy to oblige.” Murphy smirked briefly, twitching his hand before he turned serious once more, “If it was a choice, would you choose to love again or not?”

She knew he wasn’t asking to be intrusive. Murphy had experienced rather a whirlwind romance with another’s wife and was more than likely to ponder the circumstances at some point.

“Maybe one day but not right at this moment, no. It wouldn’t be something I could just pick up. Dating isn’t really a viable option for me. Too much pressure. Too much expectation. I think I’d have to know and trust the person before I even consider that side of things. What about you? If you could choose to love somebody other than Emori, would you?”

“I don’t think so.” He decided, “But then, I don’t have your moral code. It’s painful to want her because I don’t know when or if I’ll see her again. At the same time, that night we spent together was beyond anything I’ve felt before. That feeling is worth the ache you get afterwards.” He pressed a hand symbolically to his chest, a thoughtful frown on his lips.

“The ache.” She repeated, distantly, “Do you still ache?”

“God, all the time.” He shook his head, his lips jerking at the incredulity of it all, “Stupid, isn’t it? Even so, I think I can bear it because I know she wants me back. I know she will be aching, too. So, either she will suffer through it until it goes away, or it will succeed her and she will act on her desires.”

“It sounds like you’re in lurve, Murph.” Clarke murmured with a half-teasing smile.

He laughed, hoarsely, “Maybe I am. I don’t know. I don’t believe in love at first sight as a rule. This is selfish, you know. Purely selfish. I want her because I want her. I don’t want her because it’s the right thing for her. This could fuck everything up for her and yet I think I would be okay with that. That isn’t love, surely.”

Clarke shrugged, “But, it’s as you say, she feels the same way too. So, is it really selfish if it’s reciprocated?”

“God only knows. Maybe. She’s probably selfish, too.” He pulled out a fancy looking cigarette and lit the end up. After a second, he froze and took it from his lips, “Am I being insensitive with this?”

“With smoking?” She shrugged, “It’s your body, Murphy.”

“You don’t mind?”

“I’ll mind if you die from it too, yes, but I’m not offended that you smoke.”

He nodded, “Thanks. I have cut down but it’s so hard not to smoke abroad.” He tapped the ash from the end and looked at her once more, “I’m guessing you don’t ache for Karl, then?”

“No.” She shook her head, “I like him, sure. He’s likeable. The kiss was fine. He was very nice but I think, as artists, we live for passion. I could never just settle for someone. It wouldn’t be fair on them or me. Relationships are hard work and I couldn’t put myself through that for just anybody. I’d get bored of it.” She gulped down another mouthful of her drink, “It’s just so rare to find somebody that makes your skin hot, or your stomach flip, or your chest ache. At least, it’s rare to find somebody like that who isn’t going to completely fuck you up or over in the end.”

“Everybody gets fucked over at some point. Most people are fucked up, too.”

Clarke drummed her fingers on the table, lightly, “Well, exactly, so why put yourself through that on a whim? Why would you tempt fate?”

“Because, Griffin, fate doesn’t exist. If it did, Emori wouldn’t be married to a prick. You would fall in love with Karl Segal and have cute babies with blond hair and blue eyes.”

Clarke’s stomach churned and she glanced away, sharply.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” Murphy tried to amend quickly, resting one hand on the table between them.

“No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” She murmured, “But you say this with the assumption that fate, if it existed, would favour us. That isn’t how it would work. Fate wouldn’t care about our wants or desires. It would just act to restore balance, I guess. I just, I’d have to be certain. I’d have to be ready. I can’t dive into anything head-first.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand gently, “There’s no rush. No pressure. Just, just don’t let opportunities pass you by. There’s nothing stopping you from having fun in whatever way you like.”

Clarke knew that. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to connect with people. She did. She just wasn’t sure it could be in _that_ way for numerous reasons. She couldn’t have any repeats of the past. It would likely destroy her.

“Anyway,” She placed down the mug, “enough about romance and fate. Want to go and do some sightseeing? I’ve brought some charcoal and canvas paper if you’re interested?”

Murphy stood up, polishing off the last of his Bloody Mary, and resting his hands in his coat pockets, “Oh, I’m very interested in that. Or,” he grinned, “a better idea, we can squeeze money out of self-deprecating or narcissistic people by doing caricatures.”

“You can draw cartoons if you like, Murphy, but I think perhaps you’ve made enough money from this trip already.”

“There’s no such thing,” he scoffed, “and I like the idea of scamming people at the same time as wowing them.”

“You really have no moral code.” She shook her head in amused disapproval.

“And you have no sense of fun.”

Clarke shrugged, standing up, “I could always push you into the water fountain. That could be fun.”

“I do look good wet.”

“I’ll take that as permission, then.”

He pulled out his phone, opening up his maps with a laugh, “Right, let’s go, homo.”

“Oh, wow. Okay. It’s like that.” Clarke blinked, following her tutor as he led them onwards with purpose.

.::.::.::.::.::.

If she hadn’t taken the risk, she never would have known how good it felt when it paid off. As she stared at the music score printed and published in her hand, Lexa felt her heart hammering in her chest, the scent of fresh pages hitting her nose like burning incense.

“Well?” Anya was folding her arms, eyebrows raising in expectation, “How do you feel?”

It took the violinist a moment to process it all, “I didn’t expect them to make a decision so soon. It’s barely been a few weeks.”

She shrugged, “Well, it’ll still take a while before they can get it properly distributed but there’s the first official printing of it. One day, that could sell for millions, you know.”

“Oh, great, except I’ll be too dead to care when that happens.”

Anya shrugged, “I’m proud of you, kid. I’ll admit, it came as a bit of a surprise to me, though. You don’t normally go so off-book.”

“I know.”

“Why did you?”

Lexa thought about this, wondering how much of the truth to divulge. With a slight sigh, she glanced back to her tutor, selecting her words with care, “Actually, I had made a poor decision the night before and did something I now realise was stupid. I took a risk and then backtracked, trying to play it safe and it ultimately hurt me and somebody else I care about. I think I submitted this with the subconscious realisation that playing things safe does not always reap the rewards we want.”

Anya nodded slowly, impressed, “I see.”

“That, and I was still pissed off, hungry and hungover.”

At this, her tutor burst into a cackle, “I wish you’d have put that in the acknowledgements. Better yet, at the front of the score.”

After a few minutes, Anya stood up to allow Lexa to exit her office, “Well, I hope you can resolve whatever it is that’s going on between you and this, ah, person you care about.”

“How do you know it hasn’t been resolved already?” Retrospectively, it was a silly question. Anya had a knack for knowing just about everything.

She shrugged, “For one, you’ve been jaded all week. For two, Clarke is somewhere in Switzerland.”

“What?”

Anya didn’t repeat herself and instead eyed her tutee carefully, “Mm.”

“I never,” Lexa broke eye contact, “I never mentioned anything about Clarke.”

“Is there another person you care about who I don’t know?”

It was a pointless question. They both knew it.

“When is she back?” Lexa had secretly been hoping to bump into the blonde again, spending time at the Orion some evenings on the off-chance they would meet. It now made sense why her presence had been scarce; well, absent altogether. For one reason or another, she hadn’t been able to get her out of her mind or the regret.

“You should ask _her_.” Anya said, wisely, “Now, I’m not here to patch up friendships between two grown women. Not really my style. I’m not sure it’s yours either. I will say this, though: congratulations on your composition and I am pleased you have taken the good from a difficult situation. The time will come soon enough when you don’t need me anymore. You are learning faster than I could have ever hoped for. Well done.”

Lexa couldn’t picture a future where she wouldn’t need Anya. She decided against saying that in case her tutor teased her mercilessly for it and simply nodded instead, “Thank you, Anya.”

“Yes, yes. Now, go on. Get out.”

She did, her spirits soaring higher than they had in weeks.

When it came down to it, she thought, Clarke was probably away on business. The last thing she would need was something to distract her. While she was away, Lexa decided she would use the time wisely to _really_ think about what she wanted, as Clarke had suggested. She felt she’d earned a break from her duties considering her composition had been accepted and due to be published. She headed into the Information Commons to select a good book and to make use of the computers. This was primarily so she could set up a pre-order for the composition, specifically to Alie’s house back in the US. She knew her Aunt would squirm at any sign of Lexa’s success, so she really quite looked forward to the distribution.

The day was calm enough for Lexa to enjoy a walk out into the city. She decided to set up temporary camp in an independent coffee shop, placing her caramel latte down next to her book. In the meantime, she compiled herself a suitable music playlist and waited for her coffee to cool. She reflected on the last few weeks, recalling the feelings she had experienced. Partly, she was pleased with herself for directing her focus so intently on her work. She had accomplished plenty. In some regard, Lexa felt she deserved the heaviness in her stomach; the loneliness. She had come to understand that whatever decision she made, there would be some price to pay. If she gave everything to her career and to her own success, whether it was in memory of her mother or not, she would be forced to reckon with the sting of solitude. That was something she had felt her entire life and had rather found it to be a companionable sensation, recognising it as a mark of her own dedication. That aside, she hadn’t missed the feeling.

Alternatively, should she let her guard down around others, she could run the risk of losing her focus as she almost had. Fortunately, the next day she was heading out of city for two nights to perform at a couple of concerts. She hoped it would be grounding, at least.

Either way, Lexa knew what the smart choice would be. She just wasn’t sure she was smart enough to make it.


	17. Chapter 16 - Storm Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for keeping me sane over this last week or so. Each of your comments mean a great deal and I'm very thankful for you all taking the time to share your thoughts and well wishes for me. 
> 
> I hope you're all keeping well.
> 
> Enjoy  
> xox

Slowly, but surely, the days were getting longer. Clarke noticed it when she glanced out of her bedroom window onto the gentle twilight. It lifted her spirits almost enough to take the edge off unpacking. Almost. She looked at her bags and decided to give her sister a call to make the task a little less painful.

“ _Hey, Clarke_.”

She felt a little guilty at the sound of her sister’s voice. It had been far too long since they’d last spoken properly, “Hey, Mads. I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to call. I’ve been away in Europe for Murphy’s exhibition. How are you?”

“ _Wow. That’s fancy. Yeah, I’m okay. Did you have a good time?_ ”

Clarke switched her onto loudspeaker as she began sorting through her clothes, “Yes. Tiring. Enough about that, though. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about what’s going on back home. Mom said you’re not coming to the academy now?”

Madi released a sound of frustration and muttered, “ _Yeah. Yeah, it’s been an entire thing._ ” After a moment, she continued, “ _I just, I can’t stay here forever and neither can she but she won’t accept it. At some point, she knows the smart thing to do is to live in London but she doesn’t want to rush into it right now. That’s fine if she isn’t ready, but I am. It’s not fair that I have to wait until she’s made her mind up before I can get on with my life_.”

“Mm.” Clarke chewed her lip, thoughtfully, “So, what are your thoughts?”

“ _I don’t know. I was damn pissed at her for a while ‘cause it’s something I’ve been working towards for years but I’m just so done with arguing now. Tired of it. I mean, I’ve passed all my exams and everything so I’m just stuck in this rut._ ”

“Yeah.” She placed her charcoal sketches to one side, “Did you get the congratulatory gift I sent you? It might not have arrived yet. Shipping can take ages from here.”

“ _Yeah, it actually arrived this morning. I’m wearing it now. Did you make it?_ ”

Clarke smiled to herself, “Yeah. I know carving you a griffin necklace isn’t very inventive but I didn’t want to get you anything too extravagant in case it got lost on the way.”

“ _No, I love it. Thank you_.”

“You’re welcome, kid. So, what are you doing with your time now, then?”

“ _I’m basically living at the dance studio at the moment. Anything to get me out the house, really. Then, when I’m at home, I’m working on my music. I’m just ready for a change, you know?_ ”

She sighed, recalling the sensation of feeling like a caged bird all too well, “But mom isn’t, huh?”

“ _Sure ain’t. Can you try talk to her about it?_ ”

Clarke gave up on her unpacking once she got to the toiletries, deciding she couldn’t be bothered to sort through them all and went to lay on the bed instead, “I will. She knows I want to discuss it with her, anyway.”

“ _Thanks, Clarke._ ”

They spoke for a little while longer until Madi was eventually called away by Abby for her harp practice. Once they’d said their goodbyes and Clarke hung up, she tried to motivate herself to get back up off the bed. Not one to mindlessly scroll through social media or other such platforms, she settled instead on a quick level or two of a game she’d gotten addicted to on the journey back from Switzerland. Her phone vibrated just before she’d gotten around to opening up the app and she checked the notification. It was a text.

_From: Lexa_

_[19:03] Hi, Clarke. Sorry for the unprecedented message. Anya told me you’re away so I apologise if I’ve disturbed you. I was wondering when you were due back._

Clarke almost dropped her phone on her face. She sat up and read through the message once more. It was definitely from Lexa. She debated briefly whether to play it cool and keep her waiting but curiosity got the better of her. Besides, Clarke had rarely been one for games; not games of this nature, at least.

_To: Lexa_

_[19:05] Why?_

But she did feel she’d earned the right to be blunt. It came as a surprise when Lexa replied almost immediately before Clarke had even exited the conversation thread.

_From: Lexa_

_[19:05] Because I want to see you._

_To: Lexa_

_[19:06] Why?_

Clarke also felt she’d earned the right to be petulant. She tried to ignore the small judder she felt in her lungs and cleared her throat as if to conceal it.

_From: Lexa_

_[19:08] I think you already know the answer to that._

_To: Lexa_

_[19:10] I want you to tell me, anyway._

Thoughts of unpacking had completely escaped Clarke’s mind as she leaned forwards, waiting for the response. She should have known Lexa wouldn’t give too much away without face-to-face assurance and would ultimately be a disappointment, though.

_From: Lexa_

_[19:12] I thought about what you said. I concluded that I know what I want. I hoped we could talk about it in person. I understand if you don’t want to see me, of course._

_To: Lexa_

_[19:18] Ok_

_[19:20] It’s a conversation I think we both need. I came back this afternoon. Do you want to meet tonight?_

_[19:20] Unless you’re too busy_

“For god’s sake, Clarke.” She scolded herself, rolling her eyes. Way to look eager.

_From: Lexa_

_[19:24] Won’t you be too tired from travelling?_

_To: Lexa_

_[19:28] I’ll risk it. Orion?_

_From: Lexa_

_[19:31] I can be there in half an hour if that suits._

_To: Lexa_

_[19:35] Sure_

Then, she stared at her screen for a moment, wondering how it was possible that she had so readily given up her evening to put herself through something she imagined would be somewhat stressful, particularly if Lexa was going to just reiterate her reasons for cutting Clarke off all over again. Although she hoped, at the very least, that it would put an end to the tiresome ache throbbing like a second heartbeat in her chest. With a sigh, she stood up and ran a hand through her hair, deciding to quickly freshen up and change her clothes before heading out in view of the public eye. When she was finally ready, Clarke walked out of her place and started making tracks to the bar. It took her more time to actually get out of the building than it did to walk there.

The twilight had faded into something of an inky purple and Clarke found herself momentarily stalled by the stillness of the figure that waited for her outside the entrance. The warm light from the bar filtered through the window onto her olive skin. Once she’d recalled herself, Clarke managed to politely incline her head in greeting.

Lexa straightened up quite suddenly, destroying the illusion that she had been standing with her spine rigid already. She rarely allowed herself to appear relaxed and tonight was no exception. She took a deliberate step forwards, pale eyes catching the light of the rising moon, “Hi, Clarke. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.”

She shrugged, deciding not to mention that it had been her to suggest meeting that evening, not Lexa and her thanks was therefore unnecessary. They headed inside, Clarke keeping unusually quiet as they made their way over to the bar. A quick glance around the space made her stop short. Lexa turned, a few paces ahead, brief confusion passing over her features.

“Can we, can we do this somewhere else?”

Really, it was too late at this point to sneak back out unnoticed. Wells had already seen her. They had locked eyes for a moment and Lexa wasted no time in making her way back to the exit, gesturing for Clarke to follow, “Of course.”

She swallowed, thickly. He was sitting with a decent sized group of Clarke’s friends and it was likely at least one of them had seen her, too. That wasn’t so much of a problem but she didn’t want everybody else to know there was anything amiss between them. She didn’t appreciate her problems becoming entertainment for others. She tried not to think about it and instead rounded the corner with Lexa, “Sorry. I just…”

“I know.” Lexa filled in for her, softly, “Where would you like to go instead?”

“It really doesn’t matter. Did you want a drink?” Clarke thought about the bars in London centre but couldn’t bring herself to go out somewhere that would be full of people trying to prove themselves whilst under the influence of expensive alcohol.

Lexa paused, thinking it over, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Clarke didn’t offer up her opinion on the matter and just looked at her in quiet expectation. As it happened, the brunette seemed stumped for ideas. She sighed and nodded to the tall building a short distance away, “We can talk at my place if you want. I know it isn’t exactly a neutral zone but it’s there, plus there’s the option of alcohol if you _do_ want it.” She emphasised the last part of the sentence perhaps a little too forcefully to the point of it coming across somewhat sarcastically. Instead of amending anything, she just let it hang between them until Lexa made a decision.

“I don’t want to impose, Clarke.”

She raised an eyebrow, “It isn’t imposing. I offered.” She started walking in the direction of her apartment, “If you decided to smash it all up and kick me out of the window, then I might have a problem with it.”

Clarke often used humour to deflect tension and she could feel the tightness balling in the pit of her stomach. The ache in her chest had been worse from the moment she set her eyes on the violinist. Lexa said nothing, seeming generally too preoccupied to join in the humour. Clarke made no further attempt to engage her in conversation although the silence between them, usually comfortable, was heavier than it had ever been. Once they had reached the building and Clarke had scanned her fob, they walked inside. Usually, she would have taken the stairs but she had walked far too much around the European cities over the last few days and was more than ready for a proper sit down.

The elevator pinged once they reached the top floor and Clarke led the enigma beside her into her apartment. She knew her place was far too pretentious and far too spacious for just one person. It was far too spacious for even two or three. It was a penthouse, after all. Was Clarke even a Griffin if she didn’t reap the full benefits of it? Despite it all though, she had managed to add a warmth to it. The main living space was open and inviting with leather settees and intricately designed cushions. The huge television was built into the central brick column. Windows replaced the outer walls of the apartment and it seemed they could view the entirety of Arcadia and beyond just from her living room. A set of stairs stretched upwards to another floor and Lexa looked for a second as if she was curious about the rest of the penthouse but ultimately managed to stay focused on the pre-existing thoughts in her head.

“Would you like a drink? I’m going to have rum with something but I also have gin, whiskey and various beers too.”

“I…” Lexa blinked and, for the first time, Clarke noticed something about her she hadn’t seen before. Lexa, a phenomenal violinist who could perform in front of thousands, now stood vulnerable in the middle of her apartment. The realisation struck her squarely in the chest. Lexa Woods was shy. Taking pity on her, she indicated to one of the seats and glanced away.

“Have a seat and I’ll bring a couple in.” Within moments of disappearing into the vast kitchen, she returned with a couple of tumbler glasses, both with ice in, and two bottles. She noticed Lexa was still standing. After fetching herself some mixer, Clarke decided she would set the example by sitting and wait for Lexa to do the same, “What drink can I get you?” She asked.

She already knew exactly what Lexa wanted but she didn’t want to make any assumptions that evening. The brunette was clearly struggling.

“Whiskey, please.” She managed, finally.

Clarke poured some into the tumbler and left it on the glass coffee table between them, leaning back into the cushions, already feeling swallowed up whole by the sofa. Patiently, she took a sip of rum, knowing that Lexa would speak or sit when she was ready to do so. Clarke was in no rush.

Eventually, the violinist perched on the edge of the armchair gracefully, her fingertips resting together lightly, “Clarke, I’m sorry.” Her eyes flickered to the blonde’s, wide and sincere.

Admittedly, she had rather expected something a little more drastic or confusing but the simplicity reached her better than anything else could. In response, she murmured, “Oh.”

Lexa was thoughtful, obviously trying to organise her justifications in an orderly sequence. To make things a little easier, Clarke decided to prompt her with a question.

“What are you sorry for?”

Lexa hesitated, fingertips pressing gently to her glass, “A lot of things. I’m sorry for my indecision or, at least, my cowardice. You portrayed me to be somebody of power, of self-assurance, somebody to be relied upon in the face of adversity. I feel I’ve failed you in that sense.”

Clarke bit her tongue, sensing Lexa had more to say.

“I’m sorry for making you feel as though I completely disregarded our friendship. I didn’t do it lightly, Clarke. I know I have no justifiable excuse to give you for the way I went about it. All I can say is that I was afraid but that was _my_ problem. I shouldn’t have made it yours, too.”

Carefully, she spoke for clarification, “Afraid of losing sight of why you’re here, you mean?”

“Yes, but also because I was afraid of letting myself get close to you. I think, although I did tell the truth, I only really spoke one side of it. You are a distraction, yes, but you have never done anything to prevent me from pursuing my goals. If anything, you have only ever encouraged me. The responsibility of managing my time is mine. I shouldn’t have blamed you for that. The other side of the truth is that I am afraid of letting people get to know me. I prefer to let them see only what I want them to. Because of who you are, you can see right through me and that’s as frightening as it is liberating.”

Clarke nodded, slowly. It seemed Lexa had come to a stop.

“So, is this your way of saying you still want us to be allies?”

“No.” Lexa shook her head and she felt her stomach clench, “I don’t just want us to be allies, Clarke. I want us to be friends.”

“Okay.” She released a low breath and glanced back up to meet her green gaze, “What was it that made you decide?”

“The day after Raven’s party, I had a very important deadline to meet.” She went on to explain about the turmoil she’d faced when submitting her composition, “It made me realise that some risks are worth taking.”

“Is this you saying you think I’m risky?” Clarke arched an eyebrow.

Vague amusement passed briefly over Lexa’s eyes and she shrugged, lightly, “Maybe. The point is, I never would have taken the risk if it hadn’t been for you.”

Clarke swallowed a mouthful of her drink, watching Lexa over the rim of her glass.

She paused, pushing her lips together for a moment, choosing her words carefully, “I never stopped wanting to spend time with you, you know. It’s just that I, I got so worried that I would fail and I let it get in the way of something that’s important to me and, and you _are_ important to me, Clarke.”

“I am?” Truthfully, the surprise etching its way onto Clarke’s face was real.

Lexa surveyed her expression with interest, “Yes. So, I hoped that maybe you’d forgive me. I know my apology is probably a little weak but it’s sincere and I want you to know that.”

“Okay.” Clarke chewed her lip, pensively. She thought about the logic of forgiving her. In a way, she knew it could easily have been a mistake to trust her again. Even so, the ache was almost unbearable. She didn’t want any more conflict, not because she was afraid of it but because she was sick of the unbalance she felt. She was sick of losing people, really. She was sick of not knowing where she stood with people or where they stood with her, even. She was sick of seeing things that made her laugh and she was sick of not being able to share them with Lexa. Maybe she ought to have asked herself just why this had affected her so much, but it did. Sometimes, things just did. Without feasible logic. Sometimes, people felt things deeply and sometimes they didn’t. Questioning why wasn’t going to provide clarity. She looked back to the brunette, releasing her lip gently, “But will you answer my question now?”

Lexa’s eyebrows creased faintly.

“What is it about _me_ that causes you so much conflict?”

For a moment, she seemed troubled, her eyes drifting over to the horizon through the window. When she spoke, it was as if she herself was as distant as the skyline she was looking at, “Because you make me question everything.”

“Everything? Like what?”

Then, as if she was on an elastic cord, her eyes snapped back to Clarke’s, startling her with their intensity. The blonde fought to regain control over herself, wondering why her body failed to do as instructed when pinned beneath the piercing gaze. For a moment, Lexa seemed set on keeping her frozen in place but then she spoke as if completely unaware of her impact, “You make me question my purpose.”

“Why, what is your purpose?”

She hesitated before glancing at the contents of her drink, “I, I don’t know anymore.”

“Wrong answer.”

Lexa looked up in understated confusion, “What?”

“Your purpose is whatever you decide it to be, Lexa. What do you want? I know you want to succeed but what’s the real reason for that?”

“I want my mother to be proud of me.”

“How?”

“Through success.” She replied, “Through becoming a recognisable figure in society. By making her voice heard through my music.”

Clarke nodded, “Then, that’s your purpose. It sounds like a good one to me. Why do I make you question it?”

“Because that isn’t all I want.” Low frustration betrayed her, “I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged anywhere before and I’ve always been okay with that but then I met you and you made me question myself. You showed me how it felt to be accepted and valued and it made me feel something that I don’t want to lose.”

“This is still causing you conflict.” Clarke took a breath, finally understanding what she meant.

“Yes. I’m afraid that it will make me lose sight of my vision but, despite that, I think I’ve realised over the last couple of weeks that it’s okay to want more than one thing. I just worry that I’ve caused too much damage as it is.”

“Look, I want to tell you something. I don’t know whether you already know this or not but I just want to put it out there for the sake of clarity. Lexa, I would _never_ try and stand in the way of what’s important to you. I want to be somebody who supports you, who elevates you. If ever you feel like you need to take time and just focus on your music, that’s fine. I will take a step back. I will never pressure you to choose me over anything else, you understand?”

Lexa nodded, her eyes flickering between both of Clarke’s, “Yes.”

“Okay. Good. Another thing I wanted to mention. Before, when you told me you felt like you’d failed me, you didn’t. I was upset. There’s no denying it but I understand why you’re so cautious. You have every right to be. We both have a lot to lose and, and about you feeling afraid? That’s okay. You told me from the start you weren’t here to make friends. It’s only natural in that sense for you to have reservations when things you were so sure of start to change. I mean, okay, sure maybe there are things you could have done differently, but so could I. This shouldn’t just be about me forgiving you. I _was_ a brat to you that night.” Clarke sighed, “You didn’t deserve that.”

She shrugged, “You didn’t deserve me walking away from you. I have to know something, though. Did you expect it from me?”

“I knew it was always a possibility.” Clarke topped both of their tumblers up with more drink, “But when you came to the exhibition, I knew there was a possibility that you’d change your mind.”

“You know me far better than I think you should.” Lexa gave a playful raise of her eyebrow.

Clarke thought about this for a few passing seconds before she returned her attention to the young woman, “I’m going to ask you something that’s probably a little odd. Reckon you can handle it?”

Something bright flickered by green eyes. It could’ve been amusement. “I can try.”

“This connection we have, you know ever since we first met, what do you think it is?”

Lexa hadn’t been expecting such a question but Clarke could tell, judging by her contained expression, that she was about to impart something wise, “I think that you sometimes meet somebody and immediately feel an affinity towards them. Maybe it’s something about them that feels familiar because they remind you of yourself or of somebody you care about. It could be mannerisms, clothing style, appearance, anything. It isn’t necessarily narcissistic. It just feels safe. It’s known territory.”

“You think that’s the case with us?”

Lexa paused, eyes locking onto Clarke’s, “I think it could be part of it.”

“Well, what’s the other part of it?”

The brunette leaned back into the chair, finally breaking eye contact, “What are your thoughts, Clarke?”

Her throat felt tight and she couldn’t explain why. Perhaps it could have been tiredness. Perhaps it was the way Lexa was concentrating intently on the glass surface of the coffee table. Perhaps it could have been the way she avoided answering the question.

“Yeah, probably familiarity, like you say.” She shrugged, taking another sip of her drink, “Do you think we are similar?”

“Yes. In some ways.” Her gaze finally lifted to meet Clarke’s again, “I think we are both driven and dedicated to our cause. We both like the power of creativity. We are both used to our talents being viewed by lots of people.”

“The same could be said for everybody who’s here, though.” She pointed out.

“Mm.” The violinist nodded, slowly, “You’re right.”

“And you certainly don’t feel an affinity with everybody else.”

“No, I don’t,” Lexa agreed, her expression turning thoughtful for a moment, “but, then, you aren’t everybody else, are you?”

“I guess not.”

Both lapsed into a brief silence, Lexa choosing to break it first when she glanced back to Clarke once more, “Anyway, how was Europe?”

“You should know. You were there with me.” Clarke smirked, “It was good, yeah. People were very complimentary of you.”

She looked amused, “I feel like I should say thank you but I really can’t take any of the credit. It’s quite strange feeling.”

“Yes, you can take credit. You put up with me staring at you for hours on end.”

“I didn’t mind that part.”

“Okay, but what about when I started wrapping you up with the tape measure?” As she said it, Clarke caught green eyes and impulsively decided to hold them in place, almost daring Lexa to break or look away.

“I didn’t mind that either.” She returned evenly, tilting her head to one side.

“No?” Her heart slammed hard into her chest, “Maybe you could tell me what you did mind?”

Then, it was as if somebody suddenly set the space between them alight. The inexplicable heat lasted all of three seconds before Lexa soothed the burn with a cooling response.

“Nothing that you did, Clarke. I only minded when it came to an end.”

She released a breath of surprised laughter, “I’ll take that. Any time you want to feature in my artwork, you let me know.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, both wearing similar expressions of humour, and Clarke felt the warmth remain in her chest, “More drink?”

Lexa finished off the one in her glass and held it out for another refill. The calmness between them was interrupted with the sound of a buzzer from the other side of the living space. Clarke frowned and stood up, “Give me a second.” She muttered, heading over to the screen situated on her wall to see who was trying to gain entry to the building. It took her a second to figure out that it was Wells. He was swaying in the entryway, one hand resting by the buzzer. Then, he pressed the button to her penthouse again, mouthing something unintelligible. Until she accepted the call, she couldn’t hear what it was he was saying.

Against her better judgement, she picked up the receiver next to the screen, “Wells? What are you doing here?”

“ _Ah, so you_ are _in, are you?_ ” He slurred, “ _Thought you’d gone out. I was just going to hang around until you got back._ ”

She closed her eyes briefly, “Go home, Wells. You’re drunk and I’m busy.”

“ _Busy? With what? Or, rather, with who?_ ”

“If you want to talk, please sober up first.”

He laughed, messily, “ _C’mon, I’ll end up falling asleep in the doorway if not._ ”

“Okay, do that then.” She returned, “I’m not in the mood to babysit tonight. I’m going to call one of the girls to come get you, alright?”

“ _No, come on, I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk, to say I’m sorry for being a dick._ ” He raised both hands up in surrender.

“Well, there you have it. You’ve apologised and I accept. Now, go home before you do something else you’ll need to apologise for, please.”

“ _Why won’t you let me in?_ ” He frowned, leaning against the wall, “ _Is it because you’re with Lexa?_ ”

Clarke paused, her eyes narrowing a little, “Partly, yes.”

“ _Hi, Lexa!_ ” He shouted through the speaker with a grin.

Clarke just covered her forehead with her hand and exhaled, “Yeah, she says hi. Now, go home. Please.”

She could feel Lexa’s stare on the side of her head and it took everything she had not to meet her gaze. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d find.

“ _Is she your new favourite, then?_ ” Wells asked, hazily.

“What?” Clarke muttered, “I’m hanging up now, Jaha. Get your ass home and into bed or I will kick it the next time I see you.”

Wells just laughed and then turned, talking to somebody else just off the screen. Clarke watched as the person in question walked by and opened up the door, allowing Wells to walk in behind him.

“For fuck’s sake.” She muttered, shoving the receiver down and walking away from it, “Somebody’s let him in.”

Lexa sat up a little straighter, watching her carefully, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No. No, I do not.” Her jaw tightened, “Why, do you want to leave?”

She shrugged, “I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Clarke emitted a frustrated laugh, “Believe me, it isn’t you making it awkward. I can tell you exactly how this could go. He will pester me until I open the door and then he will say some things I know he’ll regret. After that, he will probably get very tearful and apologise more times than I care to hear. At some point, he will hope I offer him a place to stay in the guest room or on the sofa or something because he’s too goddamn drunk to get himself back home.”

“So, this has happened before?”

Clarke sighed, going to fetch her phone from her bag and finding she had a number of missed calls from Wells, “Not exactly. I’m just used to drunk men.”

She dialled Octavia’s number and waited for her to pick up. She didn’t answer on the first attempt so she tried once more. Somebody had to come and get him. He certainly wasn’t staying at hers tonight.

“ _Clarke, hello?_ ” Octavia sounded distracted when she picked up the phone and a little out of breath.

“Oh, Jesus, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your marathon but I need somebody to come and get Wells. He’s managed to get into my building and he’s really drunk.”

“ _Shit, well, that’s not good._ ” Octavia exhaled, “ _Try Raven. If she can’t, then text me and we’ll come get him. I’ve gone to Linc’s that’s all, so it will take us a while to get there_.”

“Oh, god. I’m sorry to interrupt. I thought you’d still be out.”

“ _No, no. Don’t worry. It’s fine. Just drop me a text if you can’t get through to Raven, alright?_ ”

“Yeah, yep. You carry on with, you know, with whatever it is you’re doing. Byeeee.” She hung up and dropped onto the sofa, hearing Wells arrive outside her door, knocking against the wood.

“ _Claaaaaarke._ ”

“Nope.” She shook her head, giving Raven’s number a try. Hers went straight to voicemail. She contemplated getting back in touch with Octavia but she didn’t really want to interrupt her activities again. If she knew Octavia and she did, very well, they could be at that sport for hours.

“What are you going to do?” Lexa asked expectantly, speaking over the sound of Wells’ voice outside the door.

“I’m not letting him in, so don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” She arched an eyebrow.

“ _That_ one. The one that makes me feel like you think you already know what I’m going to do.”

She angled her head to one side, “Which is what, Clarke?”

The blonde just resentfully folded her arms and leaned into the cushions.

“You’re going to let him in, aren’t you?” Lexa observed.

“No, not because I feel sorry for him.”

“Then, why?”

“Because,” she muttered, standing up again, “because the neighbours will complain.”

“So, you _are_ letting him in.”

Clarke wondered how on Earth Lexa was able to see humour in any of this. She was partly grateful for it in reality, though. It made an uncomfortable situation a little easier to deal with.

“Fine. Yes, and since we’re friends now, I want you to know that you’re going nowhere. Can’t back out now, okay?”

“As you wish.”

When she opened the door, Wells came tumbling in. Clearly, he had been leaning his full weight against it. Clarke watched him plummet to the floor and waited for him to eventually pick himself up before she closed the door. She raised her wrist and looked at her watch, “Okay, Jaha, you have exactly three minutes, starting now, to get whatever it is off your chest and then you’re going to bed.”

“Three minutes?” He took a step forwards and reached for her hands, “Clarke, listen, I’ve missed you so, so, so bloody much.”

She waited, evading his grasp by placing her hands on her hips. When Wells said nothing further, she just raised her eyebrows, deciding to skip the first two stages of his drunkenness, “Oh, well, that took less time than I was expecting. Right, off to bed with you then. Can you manage the stairs?”

He swayed momentarily, spying the drink on the coffee table, “I’ll just have a quick nightcap, I think.”

“I think not.” She stood in front of him and tried to direct him towards the stairs. She was reminded just how bulky his frame was when he leaned heavily against her, one arm draping around her shoulders. She turned to call for Lexa’s assistance but the brunette was already on her feet, walking around the other side of Wells.

“I’ve got him.” She said, “Have you?”

Clarke adjusted herself and nodded, briefly observing that Lexa was a great deal stronger than she looked, “Yeah. Okay, towards the stairs. Wells, one foot in front of the other, please. That’s it.”

He managed to follow her instructions for about three seconds before he stopped walking, “Clarke, the point is, I will always love you. You know that. The world bloody knows it.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Another few steps for me, please.”

He managed to get to the second step before stopping again, “And the thing is, Clarke, is that it’s okay that you don’t love me back.”

“Oh, good. Glad to hear it. Come on, keep moving.” The two of them assisted him up to the middle of the staircase, which felt like good progress.

“It’s okay.” He repeated, “I was devastated for weeks, you know. Some mornings, I couldn’t even get out of bed.”

“Mm, that’s tough.” She tried to keep a mental distance from the conversation by focusing instead on getting him to the top of the staircase, “But you can do this, Wells. Keep walking. That’s it.”

Finally, he got to the top of the stairs and Clarke managed to lead the way to the guest bedroom, pushing open the door with her foot, “Almost there, buddy.”

“Buddy.” He scoffed, his bodyweight getting heavier and heavier by the second, “I was always destined to be in the friendzone, wasn’t I?”

“We can talk about destiny later, Wells. Into bed.”

Both Clarke and Lexa managed to manoeuvre him onto the huge bed and he sort of flopped lifelessly into the thick duvet. He managed to prop himself against the pillows, this time addressing Lexa.

“See, and you just walk right in and snap her up, don’t you?”

Clarke rolled her eyes and sat down on the edge of the mattress to unlace his shoes, “Nobody knows what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You _both_ do. She told me she wasn’t ready for a relationship with anyone else yet. That’s what she told me. Said she wasn’t ready because of her ex-boyfriend. Obviously, one bad experience with a man puts her off all men completely, doesn’t it?”

Clarke’s fingers slowed as her heart quickened.

“What I want to know is what he did that, that makes it so impossible to move on. She won’t tell me, though. It’s probably just an excuse, I reckon. I bet she’s already told _you_ , hasn’t she?”

“Wells, that’s enough.” Clarke warned quietly, placing one shoe down on the carpet.

“What? I’m not being an arsehole. I’m just saying that there’s something I must be doing wrong. I want to know how I can be better for you, Clarke. A better friend, at least.”

She pursed her lips, saying nothing further. It was fruitless to even try. There were plenty of suggestions she had right then, but this wasn’t Wells. This wasn’t him, at all. She finished unlacing his other shoe and put it beside the other, “How about you try and sleep this off, yeah?”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at the silent mystery standing a couple of paces away. The sting of embarrassment pinching her skin was uncomfortable enough on its own.

“She thinks you make a better statue than I do. She probably thinks your music is better than mine.” Wells continued, “You’re obviously more her type than I am. But why? What have you got to give her that I don’t? What is it that he did to her?”

She saw the torturous look in his eye and it made her want to hit out at something in frustration; perhaps his head. Instead, she kept herself calm but stern, “Wells, stop it, please. She is a guest in my house and so are you. The difference is that I invited her here and you forced your way in. You are on very, _very_ thin ice. So, with that in mind, I would prefer it if you would respect my home and the people in it.”

“I’m not being rude, I just–”

“–I know, it’s okay.” Clarke shushed him, placing a soothing hand on his head, “Close your eyes.”

His eyelids drifted slightly, “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m going to wait until you fall asleep, okay? I don’t want you choking on your own sick, or something.”

“I won’t.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“I’m not gonna vom.”

She stopped answering him and kept her hand to his head, waiting until he had stopped muttering to himself. Once she was certain he was well on his way to falling asleep, she stood up and fetched a spare blanket from on top of the wardrobe and draped it over him.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” She informed Lexa, giving her only a brief glance as she walked past her. She fetched a large bottle of water, two paracetamols, a washing-up bowl that would have to suffice if he did vomit at all during the night, and a phone charger. Once back in the guest room, she slipped his phone from his pocket, unsurprised that the battery was almost completely dead, and plugged it into the wall. She left the bottle and the painkillers on the bedside table and put the bowl by the bed. It would have to do for now. When she straightened back up again, she found Lexa studying her intently.

“I expect you’re ready for that drink now?” She asked.

“You’re damn right, I am.” Clarke agreed, the tetchiness finally seeping into her tone.

The two of them headed back down the stairs, Clarke turning off the light and leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar. The two of them sat either end of the length couch and balanced their drinks on the armrests after taking lengthy sips of the alcohol.

“I’m sorry by the way.” She said softly, breaking the silence, “I’m sorry about the things he said. I promise you he really isn’t like that. He’s just hurting. It’s no excuse, I know, but for his sake, I hope he forgets the things he said tonight. The regret will hit him harder than the hangover otherwise.”

“Firstly,” Lexa began, “you have nothing to apologise for. Secondly, we have all made mistakes when drunk. I would know.”

“And thirdly?” She grinned.

“Thirdly, you are an astounding friend.”

“Bet you’re glad you came to your senses, huh?” 

The brunette released a singular laugh, “Yes, it’s definitely confirmation that I made the right choice.”

With an amused smile, Clarke kicked her legs up onto the sofa, her feet resting just by Lexa’s thigh.

“Are you okay?” The violinist asked, angling her body so she was half facing her.

“I think so, yeah.” She sighed, “I’m just embarrassed, really.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“But I do, though.”

Lexa shrugged, lightly, “I couldn’t make sense of the majority of what he said if that’s any consolation.”

“It would console me if I thought that you weren’t smart enough to figure it out. It wouldn’t take a genius to see what he was getting at.”

She arched an eyebrow, teasingly, “Are you saying I’m not a genius?”

Returning her expression with a smirk, Clarke poked her thigh with her toe, “I mean, you know, you’re meh.”

“Meh?” Lexa repeated, managing to look severe despite the humour in her eyes, “You cut me deep, Clarke. Real deep.”

She laughed, relaxing into the armrest again, “Seriously, though, thank you.”

“For?”

“For helping me haul his drunk ass up the stairs. You’re jacked, huh?”

“Hardly,” she shook her head gently, “and you don’t need to thank me, Clarke.”

“Well, I’m thanking you anyway. So, you and your biceps can just accept it.”

“Okay,” she inclined her head respectfully, although soft humour remained, “you’re welcome.”

Clarke took another long drink of her rum and glanced up at the ceiling, “God, I’m not looking forwards to dealing with him tomorrow. Do you fancy dressing up as me and taking my place?”

“You reckon I could pull it off?”

“Yeah, just bleach your hair and you’ll be fine. I have some Duck in the bathroom cupboard.”

“Duck?”

Clarke shrugged, “Well, it’s Aldi’s knock-off version actually.”

“Ooh, Aldi? You’re pushing the boat out.” Lexa teased, “I’m sure that would be absolutely fine to use on my hair.”

She laughed and the two tapered into comfortable silence as they sipped at their respective beverages. It gave Clarke the uncomfortable opportunity to reflect on the things Wells had said and she groaned quietly to herself, unsurprised when she received a questioning glance from Lexa.

“He’s just an idiot.” She explained, “The stuff he was saying… I don’t want you to think that, that just because I’m, you know…”

“Because you’re what?”

She stopped herself and shook her head, “No, nothing. It doesn’t matter. The point is, he spoke out of turn and I don’t want you to take anything from it. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Okay. Message received.” Lexa looked away then, fixing her eyes back on the view from the window. It had started to drizzle, which was to be expected, “Maybe I should head back before the rain gets too bad.”

Clarke bit her lip, wondering whether she’d said something wrong. She followed Lexa’s gaze with her own, watching as the rain thickened, starting to pelt down hard against the window, “I’d wait a few minutes. That’s storm rain.”

“Storm rain.” She nodded and then a low rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, “This is the first storm I’ve seen since being in England.”

“Looks like it’s going to be a good one too.” Clarke placed down her empty tumbler, “You may as well stay for another.”

“Are you sure you’re not too tired? You’ve been travelling all day.”

She shrugged, “It’s not that late and I have tomorrow off to recover, anyway. Storms are more fun to watch with someone else. Besides,” she nodded to the weather outside, “it’s a pretty good view from here, isn’t it?”

Lexa eventually leaned back into the sofa, her eyes flickering back to Clarke’s, “You’re not wrong.”

They watched the storm together, both seeming preoccupied with their own thoughts. The very tips of Clarke’s toes slid gently beneath Lexa’s thigh, almost unnoticed. The latter shifted slightly, not to move away, but in automatic recognition that the blonde had made physical contact with her. The last time they had touched had been at the party and, even though it had been in a drunken haze, the tightness between them had seemed completely unavoidable. Even before then, when Clarke had brushed by Lexa with the tape measure, neither had been able to breathe. Not really. Yet, both were incapable of recognising the other’s response. Another wave of thunder shook the windowpanes as if to call attention to their frustrating naivety.

Clarke saw the way the lightning illuminated the palest greens of Lexa’s eyes.

It was in these moments of calm serenity that she felt the weight of the space between them the most.

“Your phone is ringing, Clarke.”

She blinked, quickly shifting her eyes to the bright screen flashing on the table. Perhaps the thunder had drowned out the vibration. Or, perhaps it was something else that had her complete focus instead. She reluctantly prepared to shift herself from her comfortable position but Lexa already leaned forwards, picking up the device.

“Here.” She passed it over to the blonde, relaxing back into the cushions.

“Hey, O.” Clarke gave Lexa a grateful nod as she answered the phone.

“ _Hey, I’m assuming since I didn’t hear from you that Raven came to get Wells?_ ”

Clarke sighed, “No, he’s crashed out in the guest room.”

“ _Goddammit, Griffin. I told you to call me._ ”

“I know, it’s fine. Really. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”

Octavia groaned, “ _Stop pretending you’re chivalrous._ ”

“But I am.”

“ _I know and it’s a pain in the arse. Will you be okay?_ ”

She laughed, softly, “God, I hope so. How was your night?”

“ _It was good. Really good. Except Bellamy kicked off because I’m going to be in Lincoln’s next music video._ ”

“Why would he be angry about that?” Her brow furrowed, “Are you topless in it, or something?”

Octavia’s lack of response caused a delighted giggle from Clarke.

“Oh, my god. You are, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes, I’m topless._ ”

“You’re shitting me. Didn’t have Lincoln pinned as such a cliché.”

“ _You’re right. I am shitting you._ ”

“What?” Clarke’s eyebrows raised, “So, you mean, I _don’t_ get to see you topless?”

“ _You can see that any time you like, baby girl._ ” She teased, “ _No, Bellamy is pissed off only because he thinks it’s too soon in our relationship for me to be committing to being in music videos. He reckons I’ll be embarrassed about it if we ever break up. That, and I will be showing a lot of leg. Aside from that, it’s pretty tame._ ”

“I’m disappointed.”

“ _Yes, but you see far too many naked people as it is. Anyway, are you still with Lexa?_ ”

“What?” Clarke glanced at the brunette automatically, wondering if she’d heard Octavia’s voice from where she was sitting, “How did…?”

“ _How did what? How did I know you were with her?_ ” Octavia scoffed, “ _Or how did I jump from talking about naked people to then talking about your model?_ ”

“Octavia, Jesus.” Clarke muttered, averting her eyes quickly.

“ _Kidding, Griffin. Chill._ _I saw you both walk into the Orion and then leave two seconds later. Bit rude, by the way._ ”

She felt a little guilty. She’d been spied with somebody else after returning from her trip and hadn’t even made an attempt to say hello to her friends. “Shit, I didn’t mean it to come across like that. It was just that we were a bit… things have been…” She tried to figure out how to explain things with Lexa sitting right by her.

“ _Griffin, it’s cool. I’m messing with you_.” She intervened in Clarke’s battle with herself, “ _It’s none of my business, anyway. Good luck with Wells tomorrow. Call me if you need me._ ”

“Yeah. Thanks, O. Speak soon.”

“ _Say hi to Lexa for me._ ”

“Nope. Bye.”

After ending the call, Clarke put her phone on the armrest and returned her attention to Lexa, “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s alright. I ought to get going now, anyway. The rain has eased up a little.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows, “You’ll still get soaked dressed like that. You can stay here if you like?”

Lexa caught her eye and smiled gently, “I appreciate that but I’m not sure I should be present for your fun morning with Wells.”

Clarke’s stomach lurched at the thought, “I’m not sure I want to be present either.”

The brunette lightly patted Clarke’s foot, “You will handle it with grace, as you do with everything.”

“You think far too highly of me.” She muttered, “Look, if you are planning on going now, at least let me get you something proper to wear.”

“Something proper?”

Clarke stood up, disliking the feeling of breaking her comfortable position, “Yeah, two minutes.” She headed upstairs and returned shortly afterwards with a hoody and an anorak. She placed them down on the table and then went to fetch an umbrella from beside her coat stand, “Here. Now you’ll be fully prepared.”

Lexa’s eyes were wide enough for Clarke to know she was surprised, “Goodness.” She exclaimed, softly.

“Trust me, that anorak will keep you as dry as the Sahara.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“For what? The floods of Wells’ tears?”

Lexa couldn’t help but laugh quietly, “Alright, well, I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”

“Lexa, there’s no rush. I have two more upstairs. This is England after all and raincoats are an essential. You can keep it. Reckon it’ll suit ya.”

Lexa picked up the hoody and looked at Arcadia’s crest printed on the front. There was a small splattering of paint on the sleeves but it looked as though it had barely been worn.

“You can keep that one too. I get all of the merchandise for free from here.” She shrugged.

“Well, thank you. I feel properly mothered now.” Lexa murmured, pulling it over her head. Clarke couldn’t help but follow the material with her eyes as it hung at her thighs.

“More perks of being my friend, I guess.”

“They’re endless, it seems.” She offered a genuine smile and slipped her arms into the anorak, “Thank you.”

Clarke gave her a playful onceover and winked, “Lookin’ good, Woods.”

She didn’t imagine the colour that sprung to Lexa’s cheeks but she didn’t comment on it, either.

“I appreciate you speaking to me tonight.” The brunette spoke, going to lace up her boots.

The blonde headed over to the door with her, casually shrugging a shoulder, “Yeah, I’m glad we could talk about things.” For a moment, she looked as if she might say something more but ultimately thought better of it and just offered a dazzling smile instead.

Lexa raised an eyebrow, straightening up to full height once more, eyes lingering briefly on Clarke’s lips.

“What?”

“You were going to say something.” She prompted.

Clarke shook her head, “No, it’s okay. It’s late. We can talk about it another time. There’s no rush.”

Lexa waited, one corner of her lips tugging upwards, “It gives me another few minutes of keeping dry.”

“It’s just, well, earlier you didn’t answer my question.” She took a slow breath, organising her thoughts, “When I asked what you thought the other part of our connection was about.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Lexa pressed her lips together carefully for a moment before she released the pressure, her eyelids flickering briefly, “I think maybe it’s something we’ll talk about one day but I’ve exhausted you enough for one evening.”

Clarke knew that was her diplomatic way of declining to open up about the privacy of her thoughts but she couldn’t calm her curiosity, “Would it exhaust me if you told me now?”

Green eyes settled on blue, controlled and cautious, “I don’t think it’s something either of us are in the right place to talk about now.”

If anything, this only increased Clarke’s desperation to pick apart the thoughts in Lexa’s complex mind. Her voice, as soft and mellow as it was, was firm and left very little comfort for dispute. She wanted to ask why, wanted to get just a little more, but recognised the resolution behind her pale gaze.

“But you’ll tell me one day.” She murmured.

“When I’m ready to face the consequences, sure.” Lexa provided a smile that made Clarke wonder whether she was teasing or not. Before she could decipher such an expression, Lexa had already made her way towards the door, “I’ll see you soon, Clarke. Thank you for being an excellent host.”

“You can leave me a five-star review on TripAdvisor if you like.” She smirked, leaning her hip against the wall, “Get home safe, okay?”

“I’ll try my best.”


	18. Chapter 17 - Eggs And Crumpets

It went about as comfortably as one could have expected it to considering the circumstances. Clarke had been awake for a couple of hours prior to the sound of Wells’ horrified realisation coming from the guest bedroom. Really, she didn’t envy him right then. In fact, she wouldn’t have envied herself either, had she been anybody else.

Clarke had spent the morning working from her computer in the office space she had downstairs, responding to the various appointment requests sent through by her PA. She was comfortably seated in her dad’s old swivel chair, swallowed up in an oversized jumper. She was nursing a happy cup of Earl Grey tea, pleased she had been sensible enough not to drink herself to a hangover. It was a testament to her that her soul was getting older. The idea of waking up after a night of painful memory blackouts with uncontrollable dizziness was no longer remotely appealing. Besides, had she been intoxicated to such a level, she wouldn’t have remembered the way the lightning had irradiated the hues of green in Lexa’s eyes.

Despite the stress she’d experienced with Wells, she’d had a relatively good night’s sleep and felt refreshed enough to complete her morning with eggs and crumpets. Putting herself in the best mood she possibly could was the smartest thing to do before she even attempted to deal with him. He had been shuffling around in bed for some time, probably too embarrassed or hungover to contemplate getting up. She decided she’d leave it another few minutes before she went upstairs to force him to face the music. In the meantime, she was busy dealing with Octavia’s unhelpful texts.

_From: Octavia_

_[11:03] God, I can’t stop thinking about the sort of morning you’ll be having_

_To: Octavia_

_[11:04] He’s been awake for about 45 mins. I’m giving him another 15 before I check he’s still alive_

_From: Octavia_

_[11:04] Sucks to be you_

_[11:05] And him, to be fair_

_To: Octavia_

_[11:05] It’s a sad truth_

_[11:07] Have you heard from Raven at all?_

_From: Octavia_

_[11:08] Yeah, she slept with Anya last night_

_To: Octavia:_

_[11:09] Yeah, if only_

_[11:09] Stop trying to make me feel better_

_From: Octavia_

_[11:11] You’re weird_

_To: Octavia_

_[11:11] Friends with you, aren’t I?_

She locked her phone and leaned back in the chair, scrolling through the last of her emails before she rallied herself to stand up. She grabbed a fresh glass of water, presuming Wells will have already drained the one she left for him last night. Truthfully, she felt far calmer than she’d expected herself to. It could have been to do with the knowledge that this experience would be worse for him than it would be for her. That, or the eggs and crumpets had done marvels for her spirit. 

She assumed it was the latter.

Clarke paused outside the guest room for a moment, pressing her ear to the door, “Wells?”

There was a pause and then a groan.

“Yep. I can only imagine. Get yourself sorted. I’m coming in in one minute.” 

Another groan and a shuffle. Clarke waited the whole minute before she knocked again, letting herself into the room. Wells was on his back, face concealed with the pillow. She put the full glass beside the empty one and went to sit on the squishy chair next to the bed, feeling a little like she was a visitor at the hospital.

“Oh, God.” He mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow, “Clarke, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

Despite that, though, she could hear his remorse loud and clear.

“Yeah, I know.” She replied, “How are you feeling?”

“Like, like I want to die.”

She understood that, tilting her head backwards, “You should have some more water.”

“To drown myself in?”

“If you think it would help, sure.” She returned, sighing softly, “Look, I’m not really sure I want to talk about last night and I’m not sure you do, either. Maybe you could eat something?”

Wells finally removed the pillow from his face, “No. God, no. You really can’t feed me on top of everything else. Not after how I was last night.”

“Listen,” Clarke leaned forwards, resting her elbows on her knees, “I’m giving you a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’d advise you take it and eat something, too.”

“I feel sick.” He shook his head, grimacing.

“Unsurprising.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Clarke, but I really can’t ignore all the stuff I said to you. Not without some kind of explanation or apology.”

“You certainly said a lot.” She remarked.

He rested an arm over his forehead, face screwed up in discomfort, “I know, I know. I can’t tell you how much I regret it. I don’t know whether it’s worse or better that I remember nearly everything.”

Clarke remembered it, too.

“Can you apologise to Lexa for me?”

She shrugged, “I think she knows you’re sorry already.”

“She must really hate me. I know I would.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

He shook his head, “Yeah, that probably makes it worse. I said some pretty unforgivable things to her about, well, about your personal life. I made some pretty terrible assumptions about her, too.”

Clarke pushed past that part of the conversation, deciding that anything involving the discussion of relationships was taboo, “You said you’ve been depressed.”

He fell quiet, unable to look at her, his jaw tensing.

“You don’t need to talk about it to me but I think you should talk about it to someone. We can’t have a repeat of last night, Wells. We really can’t. Not just for my benefit. For yours, too.”

“I know. I’ll sort it out. I’m sorry.”

She sighed, leaning back in the chair once more, “Alright.”

“I hate to ask, Clarke, but…”

She waited.

“Was I right? About any of it?”

With a slow breath inward, she raised her eyebrows, her voice turning a little chilly, “Any of what?”

“The stuff I said.” He mumbled, already realising his blunder and shaking his head almost immediately afterwards, “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know. You don’t need to tell me anything.”

Clarke wholeheartedly agreed, “That’s correct. Now, as much as I like you convalescing in my home, I think it’s time you started to get yourself up and about. I’d recommend a shower and then something to eat. I have to go out in an hour or so. There are some spare towels in the airing cupboard in the main bathroom.”

He nodded, slowly, “I don’t deserve all of this, Clarke. So, I guess, thanks for being the best friend I could ever have.”

She said nothing but inclined her head, standing up and heading out the door. Once she’d made it back downstairs, she took a deep breath. She didn’t know entirely what would happen from this point but she figured Wells could make his mind up about whether he could push aside his feelings and continue their friendship, or whether it truly would be too difficult for him to move on. Regardless, she would sort him out with some breakfast and send him on his merry, hungover way. The rest was up to him and she was okay with that.

Once Wells had finally taken his sorry behind out of the door, albeit unsteadily, Clarke released a long sigh of quiet relief. Things would take some time to patch up between them, providing he put in the effort to do so. She wasn’t going to push it. His visit had knocked her back a couple of steps and it would take some time for her to view their relationship with a sense of normality again.

She checked the time and then the weather, deciding she could put off her food shop for a little while longer. The day was looking just as gloomy as the evening before and she figured she was in no rush to step out of the dry comforts of her house. She logged into Arcadia’s online portal to check her scheduled sessions for the week. There were a couple of articles all about Murphy’s exhibition on the art page and Clarke let herself take a short amount of time to read them. She’d intended to get on with some of her duties afterwards but found herself gradually falling into a web-crawl, flicking through related links instead. It was the primary reason she didn’t have social media, simply because it would have been far too easy to fall into the trap of watching “just one more” video. She had been ensnared in reading a critique’s article about her own sculpture of Lexa. Then, after that, she absently clicked on another related article, one that took her to an independent journal website. It caught Clarke’s interest because it briefly referred to Lexa back in Washington DC. Mostly, though, the article was about Lexa’s mother, Alexandra Woods, and it showed a picture of her at the top of the page.

Clarke felt her heart stop.

The likeness of Lexa to her mother was uncanny. The picture was of relatively poor quality but Clarke could see that same piercing gaze, the same angled cheekbones and the same full lips. The former violinist even shared, with her daughter, the same tilt of her mouth when she smiled. There was an undeniable aura, even in the picture, that made Clarke feel the warmth of her personality. There was a kindness there. A compassion in her eyes. Clarke looked over the expression on Alexandra’s face and realised the telling difference, aside from her paler skin and lighter hair. Where her smile was magnetic and inviting, the first time Clarke had seen Lexa smile, she had found it to be been chilly and unnerving.

_‘Alexandra Woods [featured above], beloved musician and public figure, passes away aged 35. Alexandra of Washington D.C was known by many as the life and soul of D.C.’s music scene. Internationally known as a professional violinist and performer, Alexandra leaves behind a daughter and a heartbroken community of music-lovers and supporters._

_‘Alexandra’s daughter, Lexa, 13, has been keenly following in her mother’s footsteps. The young violinist has already passed all of her music examinations to the highest standard, and plans to continue pursuing the astounding instrument as a vocation in music school. Alexandra’s sister, Alison “Alie” Woods [featured to the right], has reported to The Times that she will honour her niece’s wishes and continue to support her financially in the start of her career pathway.’_

She leaned back in the big swivel chair, studying the article from afar, her heart hammering. Even though Lexa’s rigidity had thawed during the time they had known each other, Clarke hadn’t truly realised until now just why she held herself so tightly, why her eyes reflected the light just as a glacier would. Clarke didn’t need to be an artist to observe the apathy in Alie’s photograph. Her eyes were dark and cold, void of the warmth her sister possessed. She had passed that element onto Lexa.

Losing a parent at any age is devastating but to lose one’s _only_ parent at such a tender time in life was unthinkable. Perhaps Clarke would have been leaping to conclusions if she was to say Lexa had lacked maternal guidance since losing her mother, but everything about her suggested Alie hadn’t been quite the role-model Alexandra was.

Clarke felt her fingertips tremble. She knew Lexa would have hated the sympathy but she had always felt things deeply; just more on behalf of others rather than herself. She tried to ignore the crack in her chest but it was difficult. It was difficult because Clarke still believed that somehow Lexa felt things just as deeply but chose to hide it all away.

She found herself reading another article instead, one that showed a picture of Lexa, about three years ago, standing on stage beside an attractive young woman.

_‘Lexa Woods, rising star and daughter of the late Alexandra Woods, performs as a violin duo publicly for the first time with Costia Rousseau. Both captured onstage at The Opera Hall [right], where the concert was fully sold out, and are seen afterwards to be dining together by candlelight at The Imperial House [below]. The pair are rumoured to be taking their talents all the way to Rousseau’s hometown in Calais, France, this July. Could it be that the two young musicians are more than just a duo on the stage?’_

Clarke blinked and examined the pictures at closer range. She knew better than to lap up scraps thrown to the hungry public by tabloid papers, but the photograph of them at the restaurant surely couldn’t lie. Costia’s hand could be seen beneath the table to be lightly touching Lexa’s thigh.

The ache she felt previously, the way her chest fluttered and the way the heat crawled over her skin whenever Lexa gave her a particular look, all started to make a little more sense. Of course, Clarke recognised attraction when she felt it; she felt it strongly towards many people at different times. She was an artist. She searched for aesthetics. She regularly captured beauty, vulnerability, strength, anguish, desire, lust, heartbreak, and almost every other state of being possible. She was trained to look for the angles in a person’s face that made them unique. She was programmed to notice flaws and even the beauty within those flaws. The fact that Lexa was indeed a work of art in herself, with her intense stares, olive skin and sharp jawbone, was no secret to anybody and especially not to Clarke. She had studied her in great detail over several hours at a time.

Yet, now there was a shift, a movement, deep within her. It was subtle and secret but it created a fire, one that’s flames mercilessly licked the back of her throat.

And _why?_

Once more, her eyes ran over the image; Lexa sitting a little too close to the attractive young woman, skin brushing skin. They had never openly discussed the brunette’s relationship history nor even her sexuality. They were both very private matters and Clarke was not one to pry into the personal affairs of others; especially not Lexa’s. For Clarke, getting to know people was second-nature to her. She had no qualms, usually, in asking questions and people, usually, had no qualms in answering. It was common for people, especially at Arcadia, to naturally fall into the habit of talking about themselves given a gentle nudge or enough silence. Yet, with Lexa, there was something untouchable about the layers beneath her exterior, and Clarke knew that there were many layers. For one reason or another, the artist never felt she could provoke personal reveals from Lexa without asking her directly for a specific answer. The question of Lexa’s romantic history was certainly not something she thought would be appropriate to ask, despite her curiosity.

Besides, how would she even explain it?

Retrospectively, Clarke was hit with the knowledge that she had intrusively sought out information about her friend through the internet. It was essentially the equivalent of Facebook-stalking somebody. That was the sort of thing people did but rarely admitted to. She was grateful she didn’t have social media because she had wasted about an hour and a half just clicking news links online. She could hardly bear to think how much time she could have wasted through extensive social media sleuthing.

Or about how much she might have discovered.

As if ashamed of herself, Clarke quickly closed her browser and shut off the laptop. Now felt like the perfect time to do the food shop. Then, once properly stocked up on sustenance, she could tackle the problem of getting her sister to Arcadia and hopefully forget all about her little trip through the internet.

She wouldn’t forget, though.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Despite the constant threat of rain hanging over her head, and the rest of the population in London, Lexa had felt the air pleasant enough to go for a run in one of the nearby parks. It had helped to kickstart her creativity for the day considering she’d had a relatively slow beginning, waking up slightly later than planned. It was probably due to leaving Clarke’s at around midnight the night before. She had been glad of it, though. Even Anya had commented during their afternoon session on the improvement in Lexa’s mood. She’d had a relatively successful afternoon with Anya and hung around to practice after their session had ended for an extra hour. Just before she prepared to pack up, she pulled out her phone and checked the time. She figured she had left it long enough before she could message Clarke to check in on her general well-being.

_To: Clarke_

_[15:12] I hope all has gone as well as can be expected today_

She fastened up her violin case and shut the piano lid, feeling her phone vibrate against her thigh some moments later.

_From: Clarke_

_[15:20] Thank you. I would recommend eggs and crumpets as a solution to most problems, actually_

_To: Clarke_

_[15:22] An intelligent tactic, although it is one that I have not yet implemented_

_From: Clarke_

_[15:23] Ever…?_

_To: Clarke_

_[15:23] Ever._

_From: Clarke_

_[15:24] Okay_

_[15:24] Wow_

_[15:24] Okay_

_To: Clarke_

_[15:25] Okay?_

_From: Clarke_

_[15:25] Yes, okay_

_[15:26] Actually, no, not really_

_To: Clarke_

_[15:27] No?_

_From: Clarke_

_[15:27] No_

_[15:27] Not okay_

Lexa smirked to herself and slid her phone back into her pocket, exiting the Soundhouse and making tracks towards the Information Commons. She figured things with Wells had gone well enough for Clarke to still be able to engage in humour so that, at least, was a mild relief.

Anya had asked that Lexa worked on her composition skills since she didn’t have any concerts or recitals coming up for a couple of weeks. She felt it would give her more preparation for future releases. Once she had set herself up at a table and retrieved her manuscript paper, she felt her phone buzz once more.

_From: Clarke_

_[15:55] Sorry I keep thinking about it_

_To: Clarke_

_[15:57] What?_

_From: Clarke_

_[15:59] Eggs and crumpets_

_[15:59] The fact you’ve never tried them before???_

She couldn’t help but raise both eyebrows in quiet amusement. She could almost see the look on Clarke’s face; the expression she wore when trying, and usually succeeding, in getting the things she wanted. The confusion was a ruse. She was, at some point in the near future, about to launch a request to force Lexa to partake in the delights of eggs and crumpets.

_To: Clarke_

_[16:03] I haven’t got any pressing problems to solve at the moment though, so I can’t help feeling as though eating them now would be wasted_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:06] You do have a problem Lexa_

_[16:06] It’s that you haven’t bloody eaten eggs and crumpets before_

Lexa stifled a soft breath of laughter, passing it off as her clearing her throat instead. She was able to half pay attention to her music theory between responding to Clarke, although she was less interested in the former activity at the time.

_From: Clarke_

_[16:09] Oh my god_

_[16:10] I just realised_

_[16:10] I’ve almost turned completely British_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:11] Okay, now we have a problem_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:13] Calls for eggs and crumpets I guess_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:14] A British solution for a British problem_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:19] Maybe if you’re free one day this weekend, I’ll feed them to you?_

_[16:19] I mean not actually feed_

_[16:20] But make them for you to then feed yourself_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:21] Shame. I got my hopes up then._

_[16:22] Anyway, after all, a problem shared…_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:22] …is a problem that yields a delectable solution for two?_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:22] Yes, exactly_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:25] So, are you interested?_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:26] Consider my interest piqued_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:29] Sunday?_

_[16:29] I’ll even do tea in a pot and everything_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:35] The transition to becoming a fully-fledged Brit is almost complete. You are hosting a tea party with crumpets in the centre of London. This is as English as it gets. I shall be there for this magnificent experience, presumably alongside the Queen._

_From: Clarke_

_[16:37] I think to round it all off, I should put Harry Potter on in the background or something_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:37] As long as it isn’t the one where Dobby dies_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:38] What_

_[16:38] Dobby… dies?_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:40] Oh_

_[16:40] Sorry, autocorrect_

_[16:40] I meant the one where Dobby survives_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:41] That’s worse. You’re making it worse._

_To: Clarke_

_[16:41] No, you’re right_

_[16:41] I am_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:42] Good job I already knew, right?_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:43] Phew_

_[16:43] Catastrophe averted_

_[16:45] Oh, and for the record, I like the one where that man is an armchair_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:45] What_

_[16:45] What man_

_[16:45] What armchair_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:46] The one where Dumbledore falls off something_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:46] You mean when Dumbledore dies, Lexa_

_[16:46] Number 6_

_[16:46] Jesus, you like that one? I should’ve guessed all along you were a Slytherin_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:47] What else would I possibly be?_

_From: Clarke_

_[16:48] Certainly didn’t pin you down as a HP fan_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:48] No? How would you pin me down then?_

She closed her eyes the second she sent the text, feeling her cheeks colour. She hadn’t exactly typed out the sentence in the way she’d intended it. She placed her phone down for a moment, realising she had spent a good hour just messaging Clarke whilst only completing the clef, key and time signature in between. Already, she was slacking because she found it altogether too impossible to leave Clarke alone. Yet, she felt a sense of serenity inside her. In a way, the distraction helped. She would have gotten far too deep into her own head without taking the time to connect with somebody outside of her immediate reality.

_From: Clarke_

_[16:50] In much the same way as Nala pins down Simba in The Lion King_

She took it back. Far too distracting. Perhaps Clarke had intended it to lighten the implications of Lexa’s previous text but, if anything, it made her cheeks burn hotter at the thought.

_To: Clarke_

_[16:51] A lion metaphor. That’s original coming from a Gryffindor. (Yes, your House is that obvious)._

_[16:51] And for the record, I’m an Alan Rickman fan, not a HP fan._

_From: Clarke_

_[16:52] Yes, my House is my namesake. How exciting etc._

_[16:52] Also that makes perfect sense re: Alan Rickman_

_[16:56] So, Sunday?_

_To: Clarke_

_[16:56] Sunday._

_[16:57] I think I’ve procrastinated doing work for long enough now. I’ll speak to you soon, Clarke._

She finally put her phone away into her bag to take it out of temptation’s reach, feeling suitably prepared to focus her attention fully on her composition. That, as well as feeling suitably embarrassed, too. It would have been more than easy to continue with idle chitchat with Clarke until the day had completely drained away. A soft warmth lit the centre of her chest at the prospect of seeing Clarke over the weekend. It sparked just enough inspiration for her to start working on her next composition. She spent a hefty amount of time studying hard. She knew she had to carry the balance carefully. She vaguely viewed her plans with Clarke that weekend as a reward for her hard work. That way, she could justify splitting her time up between the varying things she wanted.

It was still a battle for her. It would be for some time. She was bound by a sense of duty to focus _only_ on achieving her lifelong goal but, equally, desired more than just a taste of the warmth she felt when she was around the young blonde-haired artist.

Sunday brought with it a sense of accomplishment. She had sent off her work for Anya to mark, she had finished her morning session in the practice room and she had been for a gruelling run, and all before lunchtime. So, Lexa could safely assure herself, as she waited for Clarke to let her in, that she deserved to relax – no, perhaps the use of that word was too anxiety provoking. She at least deserved to socialise over afternoon tea for a couple of hours with the daughter of the man who made it all possible. She pressed her lips together tightly. No, she deserved to spend time with somebody she cared about.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or…?”

She blinked, adjusting to the refreshing sight of rippling blonde hair and a settling blue gaze. It took her more than a second to recall herself and she took a step forwards, appreciating the views from the penthouse during the day. The natural light poured in through the glass and she saw smaller details in the house she hadn’t noticed before, such as photographs, an assortment of interesting books, mismatching ornaments and miniature sculptures. Just when Clarke was probably about to assume Lexa had left her larynx at home, the brunette spoke, “I’m surprised you don’t have Union Jack bunting on display.”

Clarke took her jacket from her, fingertips unintentionally grazing over her shoulders, and hung it up with a laugh, “It was tempting. I think if any of the others knew I was hosting a tea and crumpets party with another American, they would either erect a shrine for me or place me at the butt of their jokes for a good year or two.” She turned, catching Lexa’s eye with a smile, “And, fun fact, the Union Flag is only called a Jack when it’s being flown at sea.”

“The sheer knowledge alone that you even know that is just overwhelming. I can see the need for an intervention.”

She laughed again, adjusting her apron as she waited for Lexa to remove her boots, “Yes, well, I can guarantee a tasty intervention. Would you like to come and see the magic happen?”

“I assume the magic is you making eggs and crumpets?”

“Yes,” Clarke led the way to her kitchen, “it will look like magic to you but really it’s just pure finesse and talent.”

“That’s quite a precedent you’ve set for yourself. Are you sure I won’t put you off your A-game by watching?”

She stood by the hob, offering Lexa a sideways glance over her shoulder, a coy smirk on her mouth, “Why do I get the feeling you’d enjoy making me nervous?”

Lexa’s lips threatened to curve upwards into a chilling smile as she leaned one hip against the counter, “Well, it certainly remains to be a sight unseen by the naked eye. I can’t pretend not to be intrigued by the thought.”

Clarke turned up the heat beneath the frying pan, her eyes flickering back to Lexa’s teasingly, “Says you, Miss Commander-of-a-bloodthirsty-army. I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed you fazed.”

Lexa lightly pressed her lips together as Clarke retrieved the eggs. The latter noticed the silence and turned to catch her eye once more.

“Is this you disagreeing?”

She shrugged, “I’m often fazed.”

“Really?” Clarke was listening fully, although her eyes were fixed on the hob as the sizzle of the eggs hitting the oil peaked, “By what?”

“Your cooking, for one. How can I guarantee it’s safe?”

“Oh, it isn’t safe. The oil is just pure bleach.”

Lexa smiled faintly, “Oh, good. I was starting worry I would be leaving here alive.”

“Nah, don’t worry. I got you covered.” She turned the heat down and put the crumpets under the grill, choosing not to pursue the subject. Perhaps she wasn’t prepared to delve into such a deep discussion whilst she was concentrating on cooking. Either that, or she knew Lexa was variable in her commitment to speaking aloud.

“The first time you spoke to me, I was fazed.”

“At the bar?”

“No, the very first time.”

She smiled slightly in recollection, “Yes. You were lost.”

“You helped me.”

“That’s what fazed you, isn’t it?” Clarke stated, the realisation finally hitting her.

Lexa simply looked at her, the silence telling Clarke all she needed to know.

The fried eggs and crumpets turned out exceptionally well. Clarke had added pinches of herbs and seasoning, which Lexa thought to be a little elaborate for such a simple meal. Of course, she was quickly proved wrong by the blonde’s natural ability to excel in just about everything she set her mind to. The meal was delicious. She watched the host clear away the plates, after receiving sufficient praise and gratitude from Lexa, off the dining table and bring in a pot of tea that had been left brewing on the kitchen side.

“Tell me you’ve at least tried Earl Grey.” Clarke raised her eyebrows, already fearing Lexa’s response.

“I can at least avoid disappointing you in that regard.” She returned, “I have tried Earl Grey before, yes.”

“Verdict?”

“Worth drinking again.”

“Come, sit down comfortably.” She gestured for Lexa to move to the settee as she poured them both a drink, resting both mugs on the coffee table. As she sat down amongst the accommodating cushions, Lexa noticed there was something different in Clarke’s appearance that day. She couldn’t place it at first. Physically, nothing had changed. She hadn’t cut her hair or developed any blemishes on her skin. She continued to study her quietly but Clarke barely even needed to glance up from stirring in her sugar to know she was being subjected to observation.

“You’re brooding.” She remarked, moving around the coffee table to sit down beside Lexa on the settee.

“I would try and challenge that but it would be pointless.”

“You’re not wrong. I’ve spent far too long learning your giveaways.” Clarke leaned back into the corner of the sofa, pulling her legs to rest beneath her, “What are you brooding about? See, we can talk about all that deep stuff now we’ve been fed. Tea is the gateway to information.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“You can’t invent the truth, Lexa. Reality is what it is.”

“As an artist, you can probably dispute that statement yourself.”

“That’s beside the point.” She rolled her eyes, “So, what are you brooding about?”

Lexa shrugged, sipping her hot beverage with caution, testing out the temperature, “Nothing particularly. Well, just that,” she hesitated, fixing her eyes on her drink, “there’s something different about you today and I can’t place what it is.”

“You were brooding about me?”

Had Lexa been looking at her when she spoke the words, she might’ve seen the brief shock illuminate deep blue, but she didn’t. All she saw when she looked up was the thin sheet of amusement concealing whatever was beneath instead. Naturally, Lexa felt her cheeks warm and she returned her attention back to her tea, “You’ve spent more than enough time brooding over me when you created me out of clay. You don’t have the upper hand in this debate.”

Clarke stretched her legs out, her feet finding that increasingly familiar space by Lexa’s thigh, “You’re right. The difference is, I am interested in people and you aren’t.”

“I am interested in people, Clarke. I’m just…” She turned to meet her gaze, realising a little too late that Clarke had been teasing, “I’m not as good with them as you are.”

“Hey,” her mouth returned to its neutral state and her eyebrows creased, “that’s not true. I have seen you connect with an entire nation, Lexa, and you didn’t even have to say a word.”

Lexa fell quiet for a moment, thoughtfully drinking her tea. Then, she looked back up to Clarke, “You know, you asked me once why I let you draw me and I never told you the truth.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“There’s something almost poetic about it, I think. The reason, I mean. You studied me so openly, analysing everything about me that you possibly could. You were so focused on recreating me, on understanding me, that you left yourself completely unguarded. Did you know that?”

Clarke swallowed, slowly. Strangely, she hadn’t really considered that perspective at all. She shook her head, saying nothing. 

“I got so used to seeing you in your element, reading the changes in your expressions. When you made a mistake, I’d know. When you’d exhausted yourself, I’d know. When you did something you were proud of, I’d know. I think that could be why I know there’s something different about you today.”

Finally, she broke eye contact, turning her face toward the skyline, “Different.” She echoed.

Judging by the subtle husk in her voice, Lexa felt it wasn’t new information to Clarke. It just didn’t seem to be something she was ready to share right then. She could just about see the quickening of her pulse beneath her skin. She considered redirecting the conversation to a different subject for Clarke’s benefit but she knew the artist would see its transparency.

Instead, she moved her hand to rest atop Clarke’s foot. She couldn’t deny the way her own heart picked up in rhythm at the contact. Up until that point, Lexa had always been conscious of bridging the distance between them for many reasons. One of the reasons was because she didn’t know whether Clarke was a tactile person, or not. Lexa wasn’t especially keen on physical contact with people she didn’t know but she felt close enough to Clarke that she could at least offer her the sort of support a friend should. The other reason she had avoided it was because she had touched Clarke before and it had sent something too powerful to be ignored surging through her system. Lexa had just about come to terms as to why that could have been but she knew she was likely to be the only one to experience it. To acknowledge it aloud could have shifted the entire gravity of her balance.

Clarke inhaled the moment Lexa touched her, her eyes switching immediately to meet pale green. Lexa almost pulled away but something about the way Clarke looked at her kept her hand rooted to where it was.

Lips parted, the violinist spoke with a gentleness she hadn’t planned for, “Whatever it is, Clarke, it’s yours to control. You don’t have to say anything.”

She nodded, her foot relaxing against Lexa’s thigh, beneath her hand, “It’s not something I realised you’d pick up on. I guess it’s like I said before, though, you connect with people without needing to say anything.”

Lexa didn’t speak initially. She waited to see if Clarke had anything further to say.

“I guess I was only willing to talk about deep stuff when it was about you.” She tried a smile, coaxing a small one from Lexa in return, “It’s something that will pass soon enough.”

“If it doesn’t pass, Clarke, you can find me. I mean that.”

It took the artist a moment to read the sincerity in Lexa’s composure but she nodded, “I know.” She finished off her tea and placed the mug on the arm rest, all too reluctant to move, it seemed, “So, you enjoyed the eggs and crumpets, then?”

Lexa’s eyes drifting back to Clarke’s, “You know I did. I am yet to find something you can’t do.”

Clarke shrugged, “Oh, there are plenty of things. As we know, I don’t do anything musical.”

“Not doing something and being unable to do it are two completely different things. If you were inclined to do so, you would be a highly skilled musician. I have heard you sing, remember.”

“Fine, okay,” she huffed, “Math. I’m bad at math. Painting by numbers is the closest I’ll come to doing anything mathematical.”

“Well, luckily that’s what calculators and other people are for.”

“I’m not especially sporty, either.” She shrugged, “I did volleyball and badminton at school but I was pretty average at it.”

Lexa imagined that she was far from average at whatever it was she chose to do. She would have voiced her assumption that the high standards Clarke held herself to at all times probably impaired her judgement, but her mind was stuck somewhere on the illusion of the blonde on a volleyball pitch. She didn’t actively choose to picture Clarke in gym shorts but she didn’t push away the thought, either.

“You look the sporty type, though.” She prodded Lexa’s thigh with her toe, bringing her back to the penthouse sofa in London, “Do you run? You’ve got the legs for it.”

Lexa nodded, her neck heating up at her words, “Yeah, I’ve always ran. My aunt used to try and get me to compete in sporting events, especially athletics, because she said my body would be my most important tool later in life.”

“Jesus.” Clarke probably planned her blasphemy to go unheard but realised she’d spoken it louder than intended and smiled awkwardly, “I mean, I’m sure she didn’t mean that the way it came across just now.”

“Actually, I think she did.” Lexa shrugged, “In a way, she’s right. If we don’t have our health…” She didn’t need to finish off the sentence. They both knew the rest.

“What was your aunt like?”

The brunette wasn’t entirely sure how much to share but she knew Clarke needed something else to focus on except whatever it was going off in her own head, so she let herself open up just enough, “Oh, yeah. A complete bitch.”

She let the silence hang between them, Clarke obviously trying to avoid inappropriate laughter, and then finally gave her permission for the release of said laughter with an encouraging smile.

“No, I’m sorry. It isn’t funny.” The artist shook her head, “I just don’t think I’ve heard you say that word before. You’re not one to sugar-coat, are ya?”

“No, I guess not.” She released a quiet breath of laughter, “Alie is rich and selfish. She is also, unfortunately, very intelligent. She always looked down on me and my mother for pursuing music. She couldn’t bond with me when she realised that we had next to nothing in common. She never deprived me of basic human needs and she never physically hurt me, or anything. It was the constant criticism and manipulation that really weighed on me.”

Clarke was listening intently. Lexa wasn’t sure how much more to talk about but she felt almost compelled to keep going. She had never really opened up about it to anybody before. Not properly, anyway. The fact that Clarke was so close, so real, so human, made it next to impossible not to speak about something that had impacted her life so profoundly.

“I think, I think the death of my mother had much more of an effect on her than she ever admitted to herself. She always told me how much I reminded her of my mom. She always said it like it was a bad thing. Alie could never keep friends or boyfriends for long. She would always cut them off if ever anything got serious, or if ever they got too close. I often wondered why my mom kept in contact with her because they were so different. She told me that Alie deserved love, that she deserved kindness, even if she didn’t know how to accept it or reciprocate it. They both went through something traumatic when they were kids and they reacted to it in completely different ways. My mom found music and learned how to express herself through that. She became compassionate and loving and pure. For Alie, it had the opposite effect completely. She turned cold and distant and never really learned to trust again. The thing is, as much as I despised her, I think I’m more similar to her than I am my own mother.”

“No.”

Lexa blinked, surprised at Clarke’s quiet interjection.

“No.” She repeated, but this time there was a fire in her voice, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t agree with that.”

She sighed, “I appreciate you saying that, I do, but it’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Lexa, I am telling you and I want you to hear me when I do, that you are _not_ like your aunt. Perhaps she taught you how to hide yourself away but your mother taught you how to show yourself. Maybe you learned that trust is not something you can give away just to anybody but even when you walked away from me before, you came back.” She shifted position, moving closer to Lexa, her feet lowering to the floor, “Actually, from what you’ve told me about your mother, you are far more like her than you give yourself credit for.”

“I’m not, Clarke.” She was wide open, eyes unblinkingly fixed on Clarke’s, almost afraid to even hope that a word of what the artist spoke was true, “I’m not at all.”

“Lexa.” Whether she felt the heat under her palm or not, it didn’t stop her from resting her hand lightly on the brunette’s knee, “You forget that I see you. I know you.”

Surely, Clarke didn’t know her to the extent she thought she did. If she truly did see Lexa, she would know that the proximity of their bodies in that moment was suffocating, not because she was claustrophobic, but because she could barely breathe whenever Clarke so much as brushed by her. She would know that Lexa wanted nothing more than to pull her even closer. To lean into her strength, her warmth.

But, then, what if Clarke _did_ see those things? What if she felt them, too?

Lexa couldn’t bear the thought. Even allowing herself to think of such a concept was crippling. She didn’t fully understand why this was all hitting her now but it could have been because it was the first time somebody had reached so gently into the depth of her vulnerabilities and handled them so carefully, so expertly.

“Do you?” She breathed, her voice just above inaudible, “Do you know me, Clarke?”

“Do I not?”

Lexa failed to take a calming breath, her head shaking ever so slightly, “I, I want to believe you. I do. If I could ever be a fraction of the person my mother was, I could die happy.”

“Then be happy, Lexa, because you are so much more than that. There’s a reason my dad chose you. There’s a reason _I_ chose you. I know I have no right to say this but your mother chose you, too. She chose you for a reason.”

Although it came as a shock to hear Clarke say the words, somehow, they were exactly what she needed to hear. Slowly, her hand slid to cover the artist’s as it rested on her knee. She squeezed gently, feeling Clarke return the pressure with equal strength, “Thank you, Clarke.”

“I mean that.”

“I know.”

“Also, I’d really rather you didn’t die. Happy, or not. I kinda like having you around.” She grinned, pulling away to retrieve her teapot, leaving Lexa’s knee to cool, “So, I have your verdict on Earl Grey. How about we try his wife next?”

“His wife?” Lexa managed to slip back into the comforts of her natural posture, watching Clarke steadily as she started to walk towards the kitchen.

“Oh, yes. Lady Grey.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes dark and teasing beneath her lashes, “If she doesn’t seduce you better than the Earl did, I don’t know who will.”


	19. Chapter 18 - Callie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In many ways, this chapter was one of my favourite ones to write. I do hope you all enjoy this chapter as it does hold particular significance and meaning for me. Suggested listening: The Awakening Theme - Tree Adams (The 100 Soundtrack).
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts. Thank you for those who have shared their support. It is greatly appreciated as always.  
> xox

It would have been a lie to tell herself that she didn’t think about it all the time. She knew it would have been a lie, but she still went ahead with it anyway, deciding it was better to lie than accept the truth. She couldn’t face that straight away. Not right then. Clarke had been shaken to the core when Lexa revealed the true reason behind why she allowed herself to be used as a model. The artist herself had never particularly minded openly displaying her thoughts and feelings to those who had an interest in getting to know her. The thing that had nudged her off-balance was that Lexa had noticed the difference in Clarke before she herself had even noticed it. That was rare. So rare.

It was rare because she was used to being the one to apply all of her focus to observing somebody else’s mannerisms and presentations. Aside from Murphy, who had special permission to do so, nobody had ever used that same focus on her before. The moment Lexa had made the remark, Clarke had recalled the significance of her mood and why, as the violinist had pointed out, there was something different about her that day. It hadn’t been anything relating to Lexa – although, she still occasionally had guilty reminders about delving into her affairs before Arcadia – and, in fact, having plans with Lexa had actually distracted her from the real reason for the darkness inside her. It wasn’t something she could ever truly forget about, nor even want to. Sometimes, the days just fell away from her.

In the few days that had passed since that weekend, Clarke had continued her schedule as usual, interacting only very briefly with her friends in passing. She had a lot of deadlines to meet and an influx of new students to teach, and she was left with very little time to even feed herself, let alone reflect. She had worried that the moment she paused for breath would be the moment that she would stop completely.

The minute the members of her last session had packed up and left, she felt panic creeping up on her, slowly and unyieldingly. Now, as she looked at the date taunting her on her phone screen, she realised that her fears had been absolutely correct. She knew the date was coming up but she hadn’t expected it to be quite so imminent. Her respiratory system stalled, temporarily cutting off her oxygen supply. It took a few minutes for her to catch her breath again, her chest aching terribly.

She had purposely left that evening and the next day completely free but hadn’t given herself any structure on how to manage the feelings that were still yet to come. She was exhausted but the thought of letting herself fall right then was almost too much to bear.

Mechanically, she tidied away the mess in her workshop, collecting a few items to put in her rucksack, such as her carving blade and a few blocks of wood. She checked her phone once more, wondering if she would receive a message from her mother. Madi had sent her a text earlier on in the day but nobody really understood what it was like. They could empathise to a degree, but not to _the_ degree. In a way, she was grateful. She wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

Once she’d locked up her workshop, Clarke began to traipse her way back through the Arthouse. It was a conflicting sensation to experience one’s thoughts as they moved so fast, yet to see each one of them in a sort of painful slow-motion. She planned on spending the rest of her evening losing herself amongst her art in the privacy of her place. So, it was bound to come as a surprise when she found herself standing outside the huge black cube building. Although, the surprise quickly faded and instead, she felt closer to peace. Her body urged her forwards a step and she followed the instinct, making her way all the way to the top floor. It filled her with a sense of abstract nostalgia, reminding her of a time when the violinist behind the door at the end of the corridor remained faceless. Now, she thought of the face frequently. She knew the violinist would be there. She still remembered her clockwork routine from all those months ago.

She hesitated by the door, taking two slow breaths, and then she knocked.

.::.::.::.::.::.

Lexa had been particularly occupied with her tasks that week. Aside from her sessions with Anya and going out for a run each morning, she had kept shut herself away in the library and the practice room, pouring her attention into improving her music theory. By the end of the week, her inspiration had started to run dry and she stood in the practice room, her manuscript papers scattered in an organised mess on the lid of the grand piano. She played through her working progress a couple of times before pausing to take a sip of water. At that moment, she heard a knock on the door. Confused, she checked the time, knowing she still had over an hour left of practice time booked.

“Hi. Can I listen?”

If Lexa was surprised to see Clarke standing outside the practice room on the other side of the door, she did very little to betray it. She absorbed everything she needed to with one quick sweep of her eyes and stepped aside carefully.

Somewhat gingerly, Clarke stepped forwards and glanced about her at the mirrors and the sleek grand piano in the centre of the room.

“Should I ask how you knew I’d be here?”

“Would you believe it was a lucky guess?”

She considered it, studying Clarke lightly, “I’m not sure that I would.”

The artist went to go and sit on the chair, dropping her bag by the side of it, “This is where you took me before to play for me.”

“And you remembered the exact room after coming here once?” Lexa shook her head, still holding the neck of her violin in her hand, “Of course you did.”

“Yes, but honestly though, I just know your routine.” Clarke shrugged easily, rummaging through her bag, “I’ve known it for a while, actually.”

“That doesn’t concern me as much as it probably should.”

The blonde retrieved a small carving blade and a block of wood and leaned back into the seat, “Please, I’d rather you just continue like I wasn’t here.”

Lexa simply inclined her head, a trace of bewilderment behind her eyes. Once she’d positioned the violin beneath her chin and picked up her bow again, Clarke felt her bones soften and her muscles loosen. Nothing, _nothing_ in the world could ever make her feel release to the same extent. It was quiet between them, Lexa flipping her attention between playing and scribbling notes down onto a sheet of manuscript paper. Such a vision was comforting to Clarke. She was so used to the sound of her father scratching his pencil against paper when furiously composing music of his own that it became something of a lullaby to her ears. Clarke caught the wood shavings in a tray she balanced on her lap, focusing on chipping away chunks from the block in her hands.

Somehow, the roadblock Lexa had met before Clarke’s appearance had shifted, and her inspiration slowly returned. It helped to observe such inexplicable emotion in the artist’s eyes.

It must have been about forty minutes before Lexa finally placed her violin on top of the piano, “Clarke?”

She glanced up.

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you ask?”

Lexa rested her hip gently against the curve of the piano, elbow poised on the lid right beside her own instrument, “Because this isn’t something we’ve done before, and…”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, her expression a little more unreadable than usual, “And?”

“And I don’t think you’re okay.”

She shrugged, casually reverting her attention to her carving once more, “I’m fine.”

“It didn’t pass, did it?” She referred to the conversation they’d had at Clarke’s and her hands stilled, telling Lexa all she needed to know.

“Have you done many? Compositions, I mean.” She said, instead of offering a response.

Lexa shook her head, going along with it, “Not too many. There’s the one I got published that I told you about and the one I almost submitted instead. There are a few others I’ve worked on in the past but I’m doing this one at Anya’s request. She wants me to focus on compositions for a short while since I’m not performing for another few weeks.”

“Do you have a talent for it?”

She shook her head, “No, not particularly. Anya feels I do but I think she’s mistaken in this instance. It doesn’t come easily to me.”

Clarke tilted her head to one side, still fixed on the carving, “Anya is very rarely mistaken.”

Lexa said nothing further on the matter and surveyed the artist through a studious gaze, deciding to allow the silence to stretch for a little longer. She checked the time and began to pack away her equipment, her gaze occasionally wandering back to the quiet mystery curled up in the chair in the corner.

“Clarke, my session ends very soon but I wondered if maybe,” Lexa cleared her throat, cautiously, “maybe you don’t want to be alone this evening.”

“Maybe I don’t.” Clarke glanced up, holding her pale gaze for just long enough to make the brunette stutter. She tried desperately to ignore the way her chest tightened and the way her blood pounded relentlessly through her veins.

That aside, she could not ignore the sadness she found looking back at her through profound blue eyes.

“What would you like to do?” She asked, her throat dry.

Clarke shrugged without giving much thought to her answer, “I don’t know.”

Lexa inclined her head, running through the possibilities in her mind. It wasn’t easy to gauge Clarke’s mood. Aside from artwork and hacking at blocks of wood, Lexa wasn’t all that sure what Clarke did to wind down.

“Honestly, everything else is pale compared to listening to you play.”

“That means a great deal to me, Clarke. If I could extend the session, I would. As it is, somebody is due to use this room after me.”

“Mm.” Clarke placed the blade and the small sculpture back into her bag, rising to her feet with something of sad amusement pulling at her lips, “You know, it’s funny.”

Lexa waited, unsure whether what was about to leave Clarke’s mouth was actually going to be funny or not.

“I never thought music would bring me any kind of solace. In the past, it’s only brought me sadness and frustration, really.” Her eyes moved back to Lexa’s with intent, “But you know how to do things to me that others can’t.”

Lexa swallowed, hard. There were numerous thoughts that passed through her mind, some of which she dismissed almost as soon as they presented themselves. Others lurked in the back of her mind to be pondered at a later date. For now, Lexa was focused only on one thing, “Why do you need solace, Clarke?”

Whether she was going to answer the question directly or not remained unclear when her reply was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Lexa let her eyes linger for a moment longer on Clarke’s before she led them both out of the room, inclining her head to the young man waiting outside, “All yours.”

“Thanks, Lexa.”

Clarke was quiet as they made their way through the corridors and down the stairs, somewhat preoccupied.

“It’s warm, this evening. Would you like to go somewhere?”

Clarke paused, thinking. Eventually, she turned to Lexa, “Do you have a balcony?”

She nodded, “I do.”

“Maybe we can sit out and have a drink.”

Lexa dwelled briefly on the thought of Clarke visiting her apartment and something knocked on her chest bone harshly, “Yeah, okay. Sounds like a plan.”

When they arrived at her place, Clarke took great interest in observing the finer details of the décor. She quietly appraised the generic paintings on the walls and the small decorative ornaments on various surfaces.

“I hope you’re not one of those people that apologises for the mess when there’s none in sight.” Clarke smirked, slightly.

“Well,” Lexa closed the door behind them, “in that case, I can only apologise for the lack of mess.”

She laughed softly, taking off her shoes and following Lexa through to the kitchen, who put some music on in the background to accompany the comfortable quiet between them. The brunette fetched a bottle of whiskey and two glasses with ice, “I recall you liked this last time you tried it.”

“Is that the same bottle?”

Lexa allowed herself a small smile, “Alas, no. That has long since disappeared into the abyss. Would you like yours diluting?”

“No, thanks.” Clarke shook her head, “I’ll have it straight, please. Just with ice.”

She said nothing and passed the drink over to her, one eyebrow raised. Once Clarke had taken a sip, she followed Lexa through the living room and opened up the balcony doors to let the evening air roll through. She had quite an excellent view of the Thames from her window, although nothing like the view Clarke had from her penthouse but that was to be expected. Lexa brought out two blankets, one for each of them, and invited Clarke to sit by the balcony table where she set down the drink.

Once the artist was seated, the blanket draped lightly around her shoulders, she let her eyes wander over the river. There was something relaxing about watching the city lights bounce off the breaking surface and, for a while, they both sat in silence to admire the capital from their vantage point.

An immeasurable amount of time passed between them as they observed the busy night come to life. That’s why it took Lexa by surprise for the silence to be broken by a small thud beside her. She turned and saw Clarke’s miniature sculpture sitting on the table. Flickering her gaze between the artist and the artwork, Lexa asked softly, “Can I look?”

She nodded.

It was a carving, similar to representations Lexa had seen before in Clarke’s workshop. It was a mother holding an infant close to her breast. She examined the precision of the handiwork and then paused, wondering what the significance was.

“I,” Clarke began steadily, her eyes fixing dead ahead on the water, “I find this time of year hard.”

Lexa glanced over to her, still holding the sculpture delicately in her hands.

“Today… today would have been my daughter’s third birthday.”

Something hard stabbed her in the very pit of her stomach and then she realised, with a sickening lurch, the significance of the carvings. She looked down to the woman in her hold as she clutched her child to her.

“Tomorrow marks the anniversary of her passing.” Clarke managed a brief sideways glance at the brunette and then stood up, going to rest her elbows on the balcony to look out onto the city, “I don’t want you to feel obliged to say anything, by the way. I know I’ve just dropped a bit of a bomb on you. It’s not very often I speak about it all, so I just don’t really know how best to articulate it.”

Lexa moved quietly, so quietly, and stood beside the artist, “I don’t think there’s a set way to articulate something like that.”

“No.” She shook her head, slowly, “Probably not. I guess people are afraid to talk to me about it because they don’t know what to say. I guess, I guess sometimes that’s the hardest part… not being able to talk about her because she makes people uncomfortable, you know?”

The brunette waited a moment before she spoke again, “Would you like to tell me about her?”

After some thought, she tilted her head forwards, “Are you sure you’d like to hear about her?”

Then, without thinking, Lexa caught blue eyes with hers and held her gaze in a steady position for a moment, “Yes, Clarke. I would. Very much.”

It took her a moment but a soft smile played at the corners of her lips, “Well, her name was Callie. Callie Griffin. She was born with this soft tuft of brown hair and these really big blue eyes. It was crazy. I’ve never seen a baby before with such alertness. When I held her, she just, just fit so perfectly. Right here.” She pressed her palm lightly to her chest, “I had never been more in love in my whole life. I got to spend around 22 hours with her before, well, before she went.”

Lexa said nothing and nodded her head to demonstrate her focus. She wanted Clarke to say whatever happened to come. She would not contribute until it felt right to do so.

“You probably understand that’s why I moved here to pursue my art. I couldn’t still live back home. Not when everything there reminded me of her. Then again, that’s hard too because it feels like all I have of her is just short memories and that, like, what if everybody else has forgotten about her?” Clarke sighed, “I mean, my mom usually phones me on one of the two days to check in with me but she hasn’t today. I guess she will call tomorrow.”

Quiet passed between them once more and Lexa looked thoughtfully out onto the river again.

“You can ask me things, if you like. You don’t have to, of course.” Clarke shrugged, “I can just see your brain working pretty hard, that’s all.”

“Did you have to go through it all alone?”

“You mean was the father in the picture?”

That hadn’t been entirely what Lexa had meant when asking the question and she thought again before answering, “Not exactly. I understand that’s private. You don’t have to share that with me. I just wanted to know if you had support around you.”

Clarke shrugged, “Sure, I guess. I had Dad when he was actually at home. He wasn’t there when, well, when it all happened, though. My mom and sister were, although Madi had just turned 15 at the time. I think that even though they were there, it felt like I had to support them mostly. They were all devastated. Of course, devastated for me too, which kind of made things harder. It was just that I knew I had to deal with my own grief but also with everybody else’s too. My parents were excited about Callie, and Madi couldn’t wait to be an Aunt.”

The brunette continued to listen, her hip pressing lightly to the balcony.

“Things weren’t good with Callie’s father. We had been together for some years and even though the pregnancy wasn’t intentional, there was never any doubt in my mind that we would keep the baby, that we would love her, raise her. Everything. I loved Finn and I truly believed he loved me, so why wouldn’t we be able to deal with having a baby together? Then, as soon as he found out, he told me, he told me I had to have an abortion or he would leave. Well, you can guess the rest. He only came back after Callie had gone and…”

It made sense why Clarke had frozen the way she had upon seeing him at her father’s funeral. It made sense why John Murphy had punched him square in the face. Lexa felt an indescribable heaviness weighing her chest down and it was impossible to even begin to understand what she must have been feeling in that moment, “He wanted to get back with you?”

“Yes, and stupidly, I let him. I was alone and grieving for my child, _our_ child, but…” She sighed, shaking her head, “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Clarke. It matters a great deal. You can tell me.”

She looked doubtful but the surety on Lexa’s features reassured her enough to keep going, “Okay, well, when he returned, Finn said he felt guilty about leaving and that he’d always planned on coming back and I, you know, I really should have known that his excuses weren’t good enough but you can’t possibly predict how you’re going to act when you’re in that dark place. I would’ve done just about anything to feel close to her again and he felt like my last lifeline so I went with it. Then, he started blaming himself for Callie’s death, which really didn’t help anything. He would get upset with me because I couldn’t offer him the comfort I used to before Callie or even so readily forgive him the way I used to be able to. So, he turned to drink and then he would start to blame me. He would blame me for letting him walk away, for not fighting for him, for not telling him when I went into labour, for not letting Callie have his surname. Ultimately, he would blame me for her passing. He would blame _me_ for it all. I just took it because I blamed myself, too. How could I not? What else could I do? I was unhappy, Lexa. I was so unhappy.” She ran a hand through her hair, starting to tremble, “And nobody knew, really. Nobody knew that my heart was broken.”

Then, she was shaking, head tilted forwards so her hair shielded her face.

The thought of reaching out to touch Clarke was not impulsive, but seeing her crumbling before her eyes seemed to kick her instincts into action before she had properly considered it and she took a step forwards, her hand reaching out to the blonde’s. She waited for a moment, gauging a response.

Clarke’s hand tightened around hers and she weakened at the sensation. With care, Lexa moved closer, her free hand gently pushing her blonde hair around one side of her neck. Her fingers then dropped to her spine, resting carefully against her, almost expecting that Clarke would pull away as if her touch was a hot iron. But she didn’t.

“What if,” her voice tremored, “Lexa, I don’t know that it will ever not be broken–”

A startled breath left her chest, her throat tightening around the final word. It was shattering. Lexa had never seen her so raw, so desperate. Never. She looked as if she barely knew what to do with herself and so Lexa decided to bridge the distance between them completely. She stepped into her space and wrapped her arms around Clarke, embracing her with a power that burned. After a moment of pained silence, Lexa spoke with a tenderness ordinarily reserved only for her strings, “Clarke, I cannot understand the desolation you have experienced, or even still experience. I can’t even begin to.” Carefully, she lifted a hand and pressed her palm delicately to the top of the artist’s chest, feeling the quickened rhythm of her heart rate, “But if there’s something that I do understand, it is that your heart was broken because it has loved beyond physical comprehension. Your heart is pure, Clarke. It is pure and it is beautiful.”

She stared at Lexa through wide, glistening eyes, “But my heart is damaged, Lexa. There’s no beauty in that. Not anymore.”

“Yes, there is.” She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the troubled ocean of blue before her, “You were willing to give up everything for your daughter, Clarke. Everything. You have felt love in its purest, most powerful form. _That_ is where the beauty lies.”

Clarke’s chin weakened, “But what if I can never love again?”

“The reason your heart still breaks is because it _still_ loves, Clarke.” She shifted her hand from her chest and moved to run the pad of her thumb beneath her eye, catching the dampness formed in the threat of tears, “I don’t believe you will ever stop loving and that’s why it still hurts.”

“I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“I know.”

Clarke’s gaze dropped, her shoulders and spine fighting to remain straight. She looked as if she wanted nothing more than to relent to the overpowering urge that she had in her body, in her soul, to crumble. Despite Lexa’s hold, there was still an aching distance between them. Yet, it was the closest they had really been.

“I just don’t know how.” She shook her head.

Carefully, Lexa’s fingers lowered from Clarke’s cheek to the back of her neck, “I know.” She repeated.

Something deep flickered behind Clarke’s eyes, her breath catching somewhere between her chest and throat, “My god, I’m so, so sorry I’ve unloaded all of this onto you, Lexa. I didn’t mean to. I just, I didn’t know what else to do, I…”

“Clarke.” There it was. The soft commanding presence. Her ability to enforce utmost control. She took a breath, her skin hot but her voice cool and calming, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Even though she felt it really hadn’t been okay a moment ago, she believed Lexa fully. Without question.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

Clarke emitted a tiny, broken laugh, “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

Of course, it had been a joke but Lexa didn’t have control over her body’s natural responses and her heart stuttered somewhere in the depths of her chest, “If I thought you’d let me, maybe I would.” She matched Clarke’s teasing tone and the latter shook her head, still smiling amongst the sadness, “I mean it, though. If you don’t want to be alone tonight, you can stay with me.”

“I’ve already disrupted your whole evening. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Clarke, you are burdened but you are far from being one yourself.” Lexa put a small gap between them, one hand remaining on Clarke’s spine and the other resting on the balcony, “Providing it’s what you want, I would be glad to have you stay here.”

Slowly, she nodded, “Actually, I think I would like that.”

“More whiskey? Or perhaps we should have a tea instead?”

Clarke gave a watery smile, “Tea sounds lovely.”

“You’ll be proud of me, too. I bought Lady Grey.”

“Really? So, she seduced you, after all?”

“Most thoroughly.” Lexa carefully lowered her hand and started to head back inside to the kitchen, Clarke following her close behind, “Thanks for introducing us.”

“I had a feeling she’d be your type.”

Lexa couldn’t explain why it felt like her spine had iced over at Clarke’s words. She made the tea, slightly self-conscious that her abilities at brewing hot beverages weren’t quite up to the artist’s high standards. She had recalled the way Clarke had taken her tea and tried her best to match it, double checking it looked alright before she finally gave her the mug.

Clarke did what she could to avoid bringing up difficult feelings again that evening. She knew she would only end up feeling them all over again in the morning when she woke up with the phantom aches in her arms. Lexa gauged her minute by minute, keeping watchful without smothering her. She had known for a long time that Clarke was strong and resilient. She also knew that she alone could not take away the suffering Clarke was feeling. She would simply remain by her side until she was ready to face it on her own once again.

“You can have the bed.” Lexa informed her once exhaustion had taken over. Clarke just raised an eyebrow, turning to watch the brunette open her bedroom door.

“Lexa, for a start, I would never dream of kicking you out of your own bed so don’t give me the whole ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa’ thing.”

She blinked, “Well, I’m certainly not allowing you to sleep on the sofa.”

Clarke laughed, quietly, “I guess we’ll both have to sleep in the bed then because I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa, either.”

The air left her lungs, her legs suddenly weakening at the thought. She prolonged the length of time spent absorbing the depth of blue, trying to figure out whether Clarke was joking or not.

“Unless, unless you don’t like sharing beds?” The blonde’s smile faltered.

“No, it isn’t that, at all.” Lexa felt her cheeks heating up and was grateful that she could occupy herself in smoothing out the (already smooth) bedsheets, “I just wanted to make sure you get a good night’s rest.”

“Well, it’s important that you do too but I promise I don’t starfish, steal blankets, or snore. I don’t think.” She added, “You’ll have to let me know if I prove myself wrong.”

It took all she had to keep herself calm. Knowing how her body responded just when Clarke was close enough to touch was one thing, but to think about how her body would respond when the two were alone in the dark in… well, it didn’t matter. Lexa was mature enough to bridle whatever anxieties she had about the situation. Besides, her priorities were not thinking about how soft or how right Clarke’s skin felt under her fingertips, but thinking about how much she needed a friend right then. That was enough to settle the raging sea inside her.

She directed Clarke to the bathroom and passed her a spare toothbrush, a baggy t-shirt and pyjama shorts. The blonde glanced down at the items, a tired smile pulling at her mouth, “Thank you. I’m lucky to have you, you know.”

She shrugged lightly, “Think of it as me returning all the favours you’ve done for me.”

“Well, I’ve lost track of all you’ve done for me already, so…”

“I guess that’s what friendship is about, huh?”

Clarke nodded, her eyes flickering across Lexa’s face, studiously, “Yeah. I guess so.” She murmured, taking herself off to get ready for bed. The two got settled relatively quickly, both murmuring ‘goodnights’ and laying in silence in the darkness. Clarke wasn’t sure how much time had passed but she knew it had to have been over an hour since either of them had looked at their phones. The steady movement of Lexa’s breathing was settling, but Clarke knew she was still awake. She felt somewhat responsible for it. Lexa probably would have slept easier alone. Either that, or she was still worrying over her.

They were close but, with only darkness between them, their bodies felt even closer. The panic was starting to return. She could feel it in her arms, the familiar phantom weight of Callie pressing against her. She had felt it for weeks after she had lost her and the sensation returned every year without fail. She shifted slightly, hoping to feel Lexa’s comforting warmth. Her little finger unintentionally just caught hers beneath the quilt and she planned on mumbling a quiet apology but the way Lexa’s breathing had stilled made her pause. They were barely knuckle to knuckle but the hairline distance between their skin felt like a fortress.

Clarke could feel the brunette’s hesitation but she could also feel her curiosity; the slow pull of that everlasting elastic. With extreme caution, she shifted her finger to bridge the gap. The deliberate movement was so slight but it was so profound. Lexa seemed to try and gather air into her chest but it was shallow.

Then, the minimal contact they shared didn’t seem to be enough. The elastic continued to tighten. With a gentleness, she brushed her fingertip across the back of Lexa’s little finger and it slid to rest in the gap between her fingers against the mattress. This time, it was Lexa who continued the slow sequence, sliding her hand a little further beneath Clarke’s. For a while, the two seemed content with their hands loosely interlinked. It was enough.

It was enough, until it wasn’t.

Clarke felt her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She could barely breathe, let alone think. Lexa’s pulse beat beneath her palm and she found herself counting each thud. It was fast. Uncontrollably so.

“Lexa.” She said quietly through the darkness. She said it so softly that she wasn’t sure whether the brunette had heard her or not.

There was a shift, Lexa’s hand tightening in hers, “Mm?”

But Clarke couldn’t speak.

Lexa paused but her pulse pounded harder than ever. After a few seconds, she inched a little closer, the silence falling over them.

Clarke stared at the odd misshapes she could make out through the darkness and her eyes started stinging, already fearing the pain she would experience when morning came. It started in her chest, the shaking. Then, it spread to her stomach and her shoulders. Soon, her entire body was trying its damned hardest to fight off the overwhelming anxiety. Her hand pulled from Lexa’s and she rolled onto her side, silent sobs quaking in her lungs.

At the disconnect, Lexa felt her breath catch. Clarke was crying and the intermittent broken sounds leaving her throat punched something hard into her throat.

Then, she breathed sharply, “Lexa, I, I’m–”

Instinct struck again and the brunette instantly moved close to her, “Clarke. Turn around.” She spoke calmly but clearly, “Turn around.” She repeated.

It took another repeat until the instruction got through to Clarke and she eventually managed to roll her tremoring body to face Lexa through the black.

“Is it okay for me to touch you?”

Another two sharp breaths left her before she managed to say, “Yes.”

With care, Lexa moved herself so she was directly in front of her. She extended an arm and wrapped it securely around her. With one steady movement, Clarke was pressed to her chest, finding herself being held in exactly the right way. Lexa’s arms were strong and supportive and her lips were soothing as they whispered reassuring mantras softly into her ear, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She repeated words of a similar effect until the spasms in Clarke’s chest were less frequent. She wasn’t sure how long she cried for with her head buried deep into the crook of Lexa’s neck. All she knew that nothing had ever calmed her like that before. Despite the chaos Clarke felt raging in her blood, the violinist remained constant and safe. She never once betrayed discomfort or panic. Nothing had ever felt so natural as Lexa’s fingers in her hair, one hand cradling her head whilst the other pressed firmly to her spine. Once the anxiety had passed, Clarke felt the sickly sensation of shame settle in its place. Lexa was still holding her, the rhythm of her chest steady.

“You don’t need to move until you’re ready to, Clarke. You don’t need to move at all if you don’t want.”

Clarke nodded, keeping herself pressed to the calming body beside her, reluctant to move away. After a few moments, she sighed, “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I really didn’t.” Her voice was husky and thick from the tears shed, “I’m sorry. I suppose it’s dark, at least, so you don’t have to see my ugly crying face.”

Lexa carefully slid one hand to Clarke’s cheek, her thumb gently brushing over the warm, damp skin, “It is frightening to be at your most vulnerable point with somebody for the very first time. It took me a long time to accept that it’s strength in its most powerful form.”

“When did you accept it?”

“When I looked at you and realised that you have been carrying the weight of a thousand worlds.”

“Today, you mean?”

She shook her head, her hand returning to her back, “No. The last time we saw each other. I think that was the difference I saw in you. Besides, even if I did see your ugliest crying face, it isn’t possible for it to be ugly.”

“Ugh, says you. You probably weep like one of heaven’s angels. I can imagine the tiny droplets falling off your face like gold dust, or something.” She teased, her voice still cracking on every other word she spoke.

Lexa breathed a soft laugh into her hair, “Oh, that’s very doubtful.”

Clarke moved back slightly, still allowing their bodies to touch, but was hyperaware that Lexa was likely to start getting arm cramp at any point, “It’s always you, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Every time I have an emotional crisis, you always seem to find me.”

“Except, on this occasion, you found me.” Lexa murmured, “Which we still haven’t properly discussed, by the way.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Clarke thought about this, her teeth resting over her lower lip as she gave her answer some consideration, “I needed somebody who knows how to be calm when everything else is in chaos.” She still didn’t divulge how she knew Lexa’s routine. They would probably deal with that at a later date.

Lexa was quiet, her hand automatically moving to rest on Clarke’s waist at the new change in position.

“I was right about you being that person.”

“I suppose you were. You seem to know me better than I thought you would.”

Clarke’s leg moved beneath the blankets, her knee pressed lightly to Lexa’s thigh, “Maybe you’ll realise I was right about the things I said to you the other day, too.”

She knew Clarke was referring to their conversation about Lexa’s mother. It was odd to think that the daughter of Jake Griffin, out of everybody she knew and out of everybody she could have sought out, chose Lexa. Something ignited deep within her and not for the first time.

“Maybe.” Lexa murmured, “You do have an uncanny knack of being right about things.”

“I do.”

Lexa could feel her eyes burning through the darkness, “What is it?” She asked after a few moments of subjecting herself to the artist’s regard.

Clarke took a slow breath, “I… I’m just really glad we met.”

She swallowed, her throat quickly drying, “Me too, Clarke.”

Lexa waited until she felt Clarke’s body start to slow down before she allowed herself to finally submit to sleep. At some point during the night, they shifted apart from the other, no longer pressed together but when Lexa woke, she found Clarke’s fingers curled around her wrist. She waited a moment, wondering whether to run the risk of waking Clarke if she moved, wondering whether she even wanted to move. The artist had been true to her word. She hadn’t stolen the covers, the space or the silence. Lexa left her hand where it was for a few short seconds, savouring the sensation, before she knew it was time to disconnect. She couldn’t explain why. She just knew she had to.

Clarke’s eyes flickered open at the feeling of warm skin leaving hers, unfocused and distant. Lexa tried her hardest to make it seem as though she had been watching the grey light filtering in through the curtains onto the ceiling the entire time, rather than observing the way Clarke’s long flow of blonde spread out on the pillows, or the way her lips twitched and pressed together at the loss of physical contact. Eventually, the recognition of reality settled behind her blue gaze and she met Lexa’s with one slow, sweeping movement.

It was unbearable.

“Hey.” Her voice was huskier than usual, probably from the tears she’d shed the night before. It sent a shudder over Lexa’s skin.

“Morning.” She managed, “Were you able to sleep okay?”

Clarke moved her body so she was facing the brunette directly, appealingly unguarded, “Actually, I slept much better than I expected to. Thank you.”

Lexa just nodded, unable to say anything further.

“And you? Did you sleep alright?”

“I did.” She readjusted her pillows, propping her head up, “What do you have planned for today?”

Clarke shrugged, “I haven’t got that far yet. I had my PA clear my schedule. I’ll probably speak to my mom at some point and try get some stuff done in the workshop.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Eventually.” She offered a crooked smile to Lexa, “I know today will be hard. It always is. It’s just a case of holding myself together until I can function again.”

Lexa nodded thoughtfully.

“Is it a busy day for you?”

“I don’t have anything spectacular on. I haven’t got any performances for a few weeks, so I’ll be adhering to my standard schedule mostly and working on compositions.” Something playful flickered behind her eyes, “I’m not sure I need to tell you more than that.”

“I don’t know your entire routine, Lexa.” Clarke laughed, quietly, “Just when you’ll be in the practice room.”

“How?”

Clarke shook her head, still smiling faintly, “I enjoy keeping you guessing.”

Lexa accepted that and sunk her head further into the pillows, her eyes drifting back up to the ceiling, “Of course you do.” The sigh that left her lungs was intended to be inaudible, but Clarke caught it all the same. She edged slightly closer but rolled onto her back, fixing her eyes on the same point as Lexa’s.

“I used to listen to you before I knew it was you.”

“What?” Lexa turned then, eyes widening.

Clarke shrugged, still not meeting her gaze, “Yeah. Back when I was practicing with Wells’ band, I overheard you. You’d left the door open just a little by mistake. I learned your routine, never knowing it was you who I was listening to. I heard you playing my dad’s composition, you know, before he died.”

Lexa didn’t speak immediately. The gravity of the realisation pulled her deep into her own thoughts, just for a moment. When she glanced back up, she noticed Clarke was still watching her, her eyes changing like the tides. They carried their own current, dragging Lexa in with them.

“I’d been listening to you for weeks. I used to sit outside the practice room door. If I sat close enough, I could hear you. It’s why I was so shaken to learn who you were.”

She took a slow breath, understanding then Clarke’s undisputable truth. When she told Lexa she valued her playing, she had meant it, considering especially the artist’s aversion to music.

“I guess, I guess you were my guilty pleasure.”

It was enough to make Lexa want to curse. She was close to it. The word sat in the back of her throat, just above the heat that Clarke had put there. She was afraid to look at her. Afraid because she knew she could have given everything away. Yet, she could no more control the aching desire to see the ocean behind Clarke’s gaze than she could control the waves themselves. She looked, knowing before she felt it, that the weight of the artist’s stare would pierce her. And it did. She felt she had been run through with a burning spear.

Clarke’s eyelids were heavy, her lips parted and her breathing irregular. She looked as if she wanted to say something, perhaps ask the brunette if she was alright, but no words left her mouth.

“And now?” Lexa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The same.” She murmured, “Just without the guilt.”

“Shit.”

There it was.

Clarke blinked, “What?”

“Sorry, I–” She sat up quickly, a little too quickly, realising instantly that in doing so, she had just made the situation worse.

Clarke seemed confused, her eyes clouding over with concern, “Hey, are you okay?” She carefully sat up, crossing her legs beneath her.

“I – yeah. Yes.” Lexa shook her head as if to rid herself of the haze plaguing her mind, “Sorry. I just realised I have to…”

Whilst she attempted to scramble for an excuse in her head, evidently alarmed, Clarke just reached over and squeezed her hand so confidently, so reassuringly, that she forgot her panic momentarily, “Hey, it’s alright. I’ll leave you to your morning. I’ve imposed more than enough on your hospitality already.”

“No, it isn’t that.” Lexa turned to face Clarke, “It isn’t imposing when I’m the one who invited you.”

Clarke smiled slightly, pulling her hand away and shifting out of bed, “Sure, use my own words against me. It’s okay, though. I really should be getting back, anyway.”

Lexa felt her chest weaken, the sensation taking the place of something frightening and beautiful, “Do you want breakfast?”

She shook her head, smiling gently, “No. I’m not hungry this morning.”

Lexa thought she was unlikely to eat at all that day. She was still concealing her grief and she was so very, very good at it. Except she had lost so much more since Callie and she still shouldered the weight of it with a smile. “You know that you’re always welcome to sit inside the practice room when I’m there. You don’t have to sit outside anymore.”

Clarke laughed, the sound painfully pure, “I appreciate that but I think I would start to get on your nerves.”

“I’m no stranger to that feeling, Clarke.” Lexa teased, sliding out of bed and running a hand through her hair, “But, if it counts for anything, I can assure you that you wouldn’t.”

“Given how annoying I can be, yes,” She cracked her neck once she’d risen to her feet, standing on the opposite side of the bed to the violinist, “that counts for a lot.”

.::.::.::.::.::.

“Hey, mama.”

“ _Clarke, baby, I’m so sorry I didn’t ring sooner. I wanted to wait until I’d got everything finalised before calling you._ ”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it.” Clarke tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she set up her equipment in the workshop, “What did you need to get finalised?”

Abby paused on the other end for a moment before she sighed, “ _Well, we can talk about that afterwards. I want to know how you’re doing first._ ”

She smiled slightly to herself as she hung her canvas paper on the easel, “No, really. It’s okay. I’ll just be wondering forever until you tell me what it is, anyway. It’ll be good to hear about what’s been going on your side of the pond.”

“ _Soon, Clarke, we’ll be on the same side of the pond. Madi and I are coming to London._ ”

She knocked her paintbrush onto the floor, her stomach tightening, “To visit, or…?”

“ _No, Clarke, not to visit. To live. To stay._ ”

“Oh, my god. Really?” It was difficult to believe. Clarke had sort of expected that she would remain in England by herself for the foreseeable future and see her family at the Proms each year and Christmas if they were lucky. At the creeping realisation that she could be with her family again, she felt her chest swell. Really, now was the time they needed each other more than ever.

“ _Really. I’m going to rent out the house in Tennessee for a while until I decide whether or not to sell up. Call me a sentimental old fool if you want, but I’m not ready to give up yours and Madi’s childhood home just yet. There are still a lot of memories I have of us all there._ ”

“Of course. Maybe you are sentimental but that’s okay. You’ve earned the right, I think.” Clarke returned, laying out her paint palette beside the easel, “When will you be coming?”

“ _Probably in the next couple of months. Madi tells me Anya has already got her a couple of tutors lined up_.”

“Yeah, it’ll feel nice to have another Griffin here with me.”

Abby murmured a sound of agreement before she switched the subject back to the original purpose of her call, “ _So, how are you holding up, sweetheart?_ ”

“Okay, I think.” Clarke shrugged, despite knowing her mother couldn’t see her, “I did a sculpture yesterday and I’m just about to draft something to add to the mural I have on the wall of my workshop.”

“ _I went to visit her today with Madi. We left some flowers by her grave._ ”

Clarke felt her stomach churn at a sudden thought, “Mom, she’ll be over there by herself when you come to England. Even Dad is in London. She’ll be alone.”

Abby was silent for a moment as she considered how best to comfort her eldest daughter. Clarke felt the familiar panic starting to rise and she snapped the paintbrush in her hand, cursing quietly to herself at the splinters of wood on the floor by her feet.

“ _Clarke, listen to me. Callie will always be with you._ _She is in the mural on your wall, in the sculptures you create, and she is in your heart when it beats. If I thought that your father was only in the place he was laid to rest, I’m not sure I could ever forgive myself for burying him there. Being underground is no place to spend eternity. He is with us all, just as Callie is. Remember this, Clarke, that she will never be alone. Not anymore. Her granddaddy is with her now. He’ll be cradling her in his arms, sitting her on his knee. He will be watching over you and telling her all of the things her mother has achieved and how much you still love her with every part of you._ ”

She could feel her skin ripple with an overwhelming shudder. She’d never thought of it like that before. Suddenly, she knew exactly what her next piece of artwork would be and it was thanks to her mother’s faith in a better life than the one humanity existed in. Clarke herself wasn’t sure she believed in anything beyond the current version of life she experienced but it gave her some comfort to think that souls continued living, even when the body did not, burning like eternal flames in an ember city.

“ _Clarke, are you still there?_ ”

“Yes.” She breathed, “I just, I was thinking about what you said, that’s all. It helped.”

“ _Good. You’re looking after yourself, aren’t you? I know you’ll be consumed by your endless duties and your art on top of all that._ ”

“It’s a lot, I can’t lie.” She murmured, already starting to sketch out the outline on her canvas, “But I’m battling through.”

“ _Oh, I can imagine. You’re like your father in that way._ ”

“No, in that way, I’m like my mother.”

Abby laughed quietly, but Clarke could feel her emotion without seeing her, “ _Maybe. I read the article about you and Murphy gallivanting around Europe with his art exhibition. How was that?_ ”

“It was good. Murphy deserved the recognition he got.” Clarke replied, “He could do an entire exhibition just on his ego now, though.”

“ _I think that’s always been the case with John Murphy. I was very proud to see your exhibition. It’s rare that females are displayed as figures of power and I think you chose well exhibiting Lexa_.”

“You recognised it was her?”

She could hear the smile in Abby’s voice as she replied, “ _Of course. Being a terrifying war commander suits her very well. I bet you both had fun with that._ ”

“Well, I had fun, sure. I don’t know how fun it was for Lexa to sit there so seriously for hours on end. She never complained, though.” Clarke was barely aware of the upwards curve of her lips as she spoke of her, “She didn’t accept anything for it, either. She wouldn’t.”

“ _Are you both friends? When we spoke about her last, there seemed to be some private joke shared amongst all your friends about the two of you._ ”

“We got off to a rough start.” She sighed, mixing her colours up on the palette, “It was well-known that we didn’t get on very well but we’ve found common ground since.”

She wasn’t sure why she was so reluctant to openly discuss the details of her friendship with Lexa. It wasn’t at all that she was embarrassed or ashamed that she had gone from despising her to caring for her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of admitting to other people that they shared some kind of bond. It was more because the bond they shared felt almost sacred. It was intimate. Private, even. It had barely even been discussed by the two of them, let alone with others. Clarke didn’t want to tarnish it with the opinions of other people. She wanted to cultivate it, to understand it herself before she could allow anybody else to. Generally speaking, if people wanted to, they could find out just about anything on Clarke and her family just by typing the Griffin name into any search engine online. Of course, it was no secret that Clarke had sculpted Lexa and neither was it a secret that the violinist had been chosen by Jake. Even so, nobody knew the way Lexa had held her so naturally in her arms the previous night. Nobody knew how close they had been. Nobody knew how it had felt to have Lexa’s skin against hers, her slender fingers in her hair. Nobody except, perhaps, Lexa. They were the secrets that Clarke was reluctant to part with.

“ _Well, I’m glad you’ve resolved it, at least. I saw the other article, too. You know, the one with you having drinks with that handsome young man?_ ”

Clarke stopped what she was doing, “What? What are you talking about?”

“ _What’s his name? Karl Segal? The Swiss artist’s son, isn’t it?_ ”

“There’s an article?” Clarke blinked, “About that?”

Abby seemed surprised at her daughter’s naivety, “ _Well, yeah. I thought you would have seen it._ ”

“No. I haven’t.” She muttered, “How bad is the article?”

“ _Bad? It isn’t bad, at all. Just the usual speculation about two members of the opposite sex enjoying an evening together. There’s nothing malicious in it. He is handsome by the way. Will you be seeing him again?_ ”

Clarke couldn’t be bothered to get into any sort of defensive debate with her own mother. Abby would drop the subject eventually. “If he comes to England one day, sure.”

“ _Well, tell him to wait until Madi and I are over so we can meet him_.”

“You’re shitting me, mom.”

Abby scoffed, “ _Alright, alright. You got me. Honey, before you go, I just want to ask if everything is going well with the board?_ ”

“As far as I know, why?”

Abby paused, “ _I don’t know. I just get the feeling that something’s off. I’ll try look into it from this end, but just be careful, baby. They were your father’s friends but that doesn’t mean they will be your friends too._ ”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Clarke returned her attention to her painting, “But, sure, I’ll do some digging or something. I’m going to go now but thanks for calling. It helped a lot.”

“ _You’re welcome, baby. Look after yourself, please. I love you so much, okay? I can’t wait to see you again._ ”

“I know. I love you too, mama.”

Once the call ended, Clarke leaned back in her seat. She focused on the developing image before her, already picturing exactly how she wanted it to look. She would have a city, one with burning lights, one of beauty. In the centre of it all, Callie would be a little girl of three years old and she would be holding a small ember flame, nurturing it with small and gentle hands as she sat on her grandfather’s lap.


	20. Chapter 19 - A Business Proposal

Octavia had put her foot down. Enough was enough. It was her final week in London before she was heading off to New Zealand for a month or so to complete filming and Clarke was coming out and she was going to enjoy herself whether she liked it or not. She was exactly right to do so. She wanted her nearest and dearest all within arm’s length just once before she left. Anya was less than thrilled about being that close to anybody but Clarke had informed her, rightly, that if she had to do it, so did the music tutor. Raven, of course, would just be happy to have a drink in her hand. Clarke wouldn’t have minded attending so much except she knew that Wells would be there. She hadn’t seen him properly since his drunken pilgrimage to her penthouse. She assumed it would go one of two ways; Wells would try his best to avoid her out of fear that he would make an inebriated idiot out of himself again, _or_ he would just make an inebriated idiot of himself. She hoped he would defy the odds and instead behave as he used to: appropriately. Whatever happened, Clarke reminded herself that she would be there for Octavia. Nobody else.

Until that night, she had plenty to keep herself occupied. The main things capturing her attention were the wide-eyed stares of the board members as they sat around the table. She could understand why. She was probably a confusing sight to behold in that moment and, not to mention, an unexpected one. It had started with an anonymous tip in an email from an unknown sender detailing the time and the place of the board meeting. She had been bewildered at first but grateful soon afterwards. She wasn’t sure how grateful everybody else would be but she was certainly willing to find out.

“Sorry I’m late. I didn’t get an invite.” She’d opened with that after walking through the double doors to the main conference room of the high-rise office building. It didn’t come as surprise to see the gathering of men fall silent at her presence. She stood at the head of the table with an expectant smile on her face, “No, no. Please, continue. Just pretend I’m not here.”

The way she dragged the last sentence out had been no accident and it prompted a heavier silence than before. She sensed guilt from some, irritation from others. It didn’t take her long to pick out those in the group who had influenced the decision to slyly cut her out of the meetings. Since all eyes were on her anyway, she figured there was no way she could draw any more attention to herself and therefore dragged a chair from the opposite side of the room all the way to the vacant space at the head of the table. The friction of the chair legs against the carpet was deafening. She stood between the chair and the table, choosing not to sit right away as she rested her fingertips on the wooden surface, “Perhaps, if you’re not going to continue, one of you would like to get me up to speed on what I’ve missed.”

Marcus Kane was the first to acknowledge the uncomfortableness of the situation. He cleared his throat and rested his elbows on the table, “Welcome, Clarke. We’re glad to have you join us. There must have been an oversight somewhere that you didn’t receive an email about the, uh, change in schedule.”

And yet, he couldn’t meet her gaze.

“An oversight? Ah. Interesting.” Clarke nodded, ostensibly calm and amenable, “Does anybody else find that interesting? I know I do. It’s interesting because it seems quite a large oversight to forget to invite the chairperson of The Arcadian Academy of the Arts, doesn’t it?”

“It won’t happen again.” He still hadn’t looked up.

“Oh, good. That’s reassuring to hear, Marcus.” She allowed the silence to hang before she continued onwards, “Because you would have thought that after two months’ worth of meetings, at least _one_ of you would have noticed my absence.”

The smile on her lips was more than unsettling. The only one who seemed able to hold her stare for longer than three seconds was Thelonious Jaha, “Clarke, I am more than happy to get you up to date with the minutes of the last few meetings.”

She gestured for him to continue, shifting her entire attention onto him.

He did so with an amiable nod of his head – one that gave Clarke the sudden urge to punch him. She suppressed the desire with difficulty. “Clarke, as I’m sure you know, your father had a plan of expanding Arcadia. He wanted to set up smaller schools around the country for those who are, ah, more financially diverse than our current cohorts. As you know, we are keen to implement all of his plans for the future but this particular goal he began to set up prior to his passing seems, at present, unachievable.” He paused, not without condescension, before continuing, “Of course, it’s a shame to put such a noble plan on hold but we see no further alternative than to pull out the funding for it.”

Clarke nodded, slowly. She allowed Jaha one small moment of victory but one moment was all she could spare. She was fully aware of the board’s intentions to scrap Jake Griffin’s plans of introducing high quality schooling to less-privileged students. Jake had mentioned to Abby a couple of times that they had been planning on overruling his decisions for several months on the matter, but that no-one had ever quite managed to do so. Of course, now that it was Clarke Griffin sitting in her father’s seat, the board had assumed she would be easy to pick off. She was a young, impressionable, naïve _female_. She was virtually no threat. She hadn’t even been primed for the position. It had been sprung on her and the board were counting on that. They were counting on her vulnerability. Maybe, just maybe, she could use that to her advantage.

“And where would you be putting the funds instead?”

“Into resources, more events, refurbishments, extra establishments. We can even set up more schools around the country if needed, but it isn’t practical to have them run as community colleges. It’s non-profitable.”

“You’re right, of course.” Clarke nodded, thoughtfully.

This time, one of the directors she had always been less than enamoured with spoke up, “There are countless areas that would benefit from the millions of money Jake was setting aside for this little project. It was a charming idea. We can all agree on that, right?” His voice was rich and powerful enough to force the others into an automatic submission of agreement, “But, look, this is a business, sweetheart. We have to be realistic about it.”

Clarke bode her time, watching the well-built man steadily from across the table, waiting for him to finish lulling himself into a false sense of secure authority. Beneath her skin though, her blood simmered.

“I mean, look, there are community colleges already. There are plenty of places for kids to go and study their artsy-fartsy hobbies if that’s truly how they wish to spend their lives. It isn’t our responsibility to support the economically-failing population. We aren’t a charity, darling. Music, dancing, painting, acting, whatever – the whole lot – no matter how you look at it, they aren’t _essential_ to a functioning society, are they? To truly excel at these subjects, you _have_ to have the money for it to start off with, or you end up in a rut. It’s just false promises for those kids out there. They’re better off getting jobs at supermarkets or restaurants, or something that actually _contributes_ to society. Or why don’t they just do what all the other poor people do and feed off the system? Get benefits. Drain the country of its own money. You know, it obviously isn’t hard for them. The rest of us have to work, don’t we?” He looked around his companions, initiating a round of arrogant laughter. Marcus at least had the decorum to put his face in his hand at his colleague’s remarks.

Carefully, Clarke rose to her feet. She knew she had no right to be personally offended by the things he had announced as fact to the entire board. She, herself, had never struggled financially. She had never been in debt. She had never wanted for anything material. She was surrounded by luxury, friends, and she had a family that cared for her. She wasn’t offended. She wasn’t even angry.

She was beyond all of that.

She was _enraged_.

Clarke felt it, not for herself, but for those she knew. For those she didn’t know. For those who had never been given a voice.

Despite blue usually being regarded as a cool colour, it was often overlooked that the bluest part of a flame was hotter than the red. So, although one could say they “saw red” and others would know they were angry, Clarke saw nothing but a colour so blue it was almost white. It reflected deep in the pits of her eyes and burned at thousands of degrees in her stomach.

“It’s Pike, isn’t it?”

He inclined his head, initially missing the frightening control she used when looking at him, “Charles Pike.”

“Ah.” Her head lowered in a painfully slow nod, “Charles.” She repeated, “Before I respond to your comments, I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Go right ahead.” He grinned, still riding high on his power trip.

“Did you ever call my father ‘sweetheart’?”

He hadn’t been expecting that, she could tell. Carefully, she leaned forwards, knuckles white as she rested her fingertips against the table top. He said nothing, his eyebrows raising.

“No? What about ‘darling’?”

“No. Your father and I didn’t have that sort of relationship.” He smirked but, this time, he was alone.

“No, I can’t imagine that you did.” She nodded her head in understanding, “Although, your response does make me curious.”

He shifted then, finally sensing the atmospheric variation in the room. He glanced about him, hoping somebody else would either jump to his defence or change the subject. Nobody said a word.

“Tell me, do you think _we_ have that sort of relationship?” She asked, her eyes pinning his in place. She could see the beginnings of anger combined with humiliation in his stare. He glazed over it all with a short laugh, obviously hoping Clarke would pass it off as a joke too.

She didn’t.

Neither did anybody else.

“I asked you a question, Charles.” She pressed.

“No. It wasn’t intended in that way with you, either. I apologise if you thought it was.”

“So, how did you intend it, then?”

His lips tightened, shoulders rigid, “No intention. Just a force of habit.”

“What? A force of habit?” She blinked, surprised, “To have pet-names for all of your colleagues? Did we not just clarify that you never used those terms to refer to my father?”

He set his jaw, obviously wishing to opt out of the conversation altogether.

“My mistake.”

“Yes.” Clarke nodded, her presentation like the glass surface of a lake, “It was.”

She kept her unrelenting stare locked on his until he eventually looked away once he was over his initial bout of defiance.

“Right,” she straightened up, “onto the matters at hand. Charles, since you had such impressive opinions on the country’s economic failures, I’m sure you won’t mind me using you as an example. Now, I am not so unprofessional that I would state your current salary in front of the entire board but, for the sake of an argument, let’s pretend your base salary began at 250 thousand a year – a stingy figure, I know. I’ve short changed you. So, considering we are in the heart of London and therefore at the heart of inflation, let’s say over the last two years of your employment, your base salary alone has increased by a total of – I don’t know – 7%, you would now be on, say, 267 thousand, correct?”

Pike said nothing.

“So, with that in mind, let’s pretend you got just a small loyalty bonus bi-annually of 50 thousand, you would come out with 367 thousand at the end of the year, right? With our knowledge that you receive a slight pay-rise at the start of each financial year, I would hazard a guess that your total salary, in this hypothetical scenario, would be just above 400 thousand. Now, Charles, when you come to work, do you ever worry that the hazards of working a 9 to 5, Monday to Friday job in a comfortable office, could put your life at risk? Do you get out of bed in a morning and wonder if you might go to work and then never come home, such is the nature of your job description? Do the remits of your job role include rehabilitating people or caring for those who are no longer able to care for themselves? Do you pour your career into researching the cure for cancer? Are you sent abroad to live in dire conditions for prolonged periods at a time to protect your country?”

He folded his arms, most likely no longer thinking Clarke was anything like a ‘sweetheart’ or a ‘darling’. She guessed he was thinking of far worse gender-specific derogatory terms to use for her.

“Because, arguably, they are all essential parts of the society we live in, are they not? You may, or may not, be aware that those within such vital occupations may begin their base salaries at around 20 thousand a year. Maybe more, often less.”

Pike’s lip curled.

“Now, I’m just plucking out one of your remarks from the air here, but when you said art and music, et cetera, were not essential to a functioning society, I’m not sure whether you’re aware or not that you diminished your own job role. I’m not going to disagree with you because perhaps you’re right. So, since you feel your job is effectively not essential to a functioning society, perhaps you wouldn’t mind cutting your theoretical salary and directing it into areas that _are_ functioning parts of society, such as, education. If people receive education and are given opportunities, perhaps they wouldn’t need to ‘drain the country of its own money’. Perhaps there would be less crime. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so concerned with the economic failings of this society, after all. Perhaps you would realise that you have far more responsibility than you originally thought you did but what would I know? I just smile at cameras and paint pretty, but pointless, pictures.”

There was a ripple of uncomfortable murmurs scattering between the other members of the board and Clarke allowed them a few moments for it all to settle in before she continued.

“All of that aside, I want to acknowledge to each of you that I know I am new to this. I _know_ I lack the experience my father did and even the experience that many of you have. I am not so naïve in thinking that I can simply expect your loyalty straight off the bat. I know it will take time to establish some sort of trust between us. I would never refer to myself as superior to any of you because I would like to think of us all as partners. You can understand why that would be difficult for me now, knowing that you do not view me with the same equality that I have aimed to view you with.” Clarke pressed her fingertips together, lightly, “I really would not like to pull rank over any of you but if grown adults cannot even train themselves to treat me with even the most basic level of respect, I will have to take stricter measures to ensure that you _do_ understand my position here.” She gestured to the members of the board surrounding her, her expression impenetrable, “I am uncomfortable that it has amounted to this, but as friends and colleagues of my father, I cannot fathom how uncomfortable it must make you all feel. I can now safely say that I don’t owe a single one of you anything,” she made sure her gaze lingered specifically on Marcus and Thelonious, “but out of love and respect for my father, I will continue to honour his decisions for now not only on his choice of partners, but in his plans for the future too.”

She could see the difference in facial expressions amongst each individual. Some looked like naughty schoolboys and others looked furious that she had found them out. There was one who just looked as though he was about ready for a coffee break.

“I am not saying my father chose the best method in achieving the goals he set out to improve society in the small ways that we can, but I think he had the right concept. Actually, Charles, you mentioned that we are not a charity.” She glanced at him with a chilly smile, “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional on your behalf but you actually gave me an idea. Setting up a charity, in my opinion, would be an excellent business move. We can direct _some_ of the funds my father intended for his project to setting it up and we can propose the idea to receive some external funding.”

One of the board members raised his hand and Clarke gestured for him to speak, “Would that not taint the reputation of this establishment?”

Clarke forced herself to remain level-headed and she gave a gentle shrug, “It’s possible, sure. If the charity is set up in my father’s name, as opposed to the name of this academy itself, then perhaps we can avoid tainting this particular establishment’s reputation. It should be noted that recognition from other groups of people, not just the privileged or the rich, will gain us more support, more funding and ultimately, a wider clientele base. We must accept that times are changing and we must change with them. Divides between classes will always remain but, at some point, the arts will have to adapt to new generations. Our client base will eventually diminish.”

There were a few reasonable nods of heads and mumbles of vague agreement.

“Thelonious, I would like to direct the honour of implementing that plan onto you. I’m positive you will be the right person for the job.” Her eyes lingered on his for a few seconds longer than required, “It is unfortunate that my mother, Abigail Griffin, could not be here to witness such a significant meeting but I will ensure she is kept updated with all areas of our discussions. I will request that she is the one to frequently check in with you, Thelonious, about your progression.”

“Clarke,” he began, remaining polite if not a little cold, “your mother is a valued member of this board, as I hope you know, but as she is overseas and highly occupied with other areas of Arcadia, arranging conference calls with her is often a challenge. Perhaps you would like to appoint somebody else to check in with me in her place? Maybe even you, yourself, would like to?” She knew he was issuing a challenge. It was subtle but it was clear.

Clarke turned to face him fully after pouring herself a plastic cup of water and taking a sip, “Oh, then you hadn’t heard?” She paused, allowing the confusion to settle behind his eyes before she continued, “My mother and sister will be in London as of next month.”

“Permanently?” Marcus spoke, finally looking up to meet Clarke’s gaze.

“Yes, Marcus. Permanently. So, that solves that conundrum, doesn’t it?” She pressed on, glancing at the clock on the wall, “I am acutely aware that I have completely disrupted the initial agenda for this meeting and I apologise for that. I think perhaps we should terminate this current meeting here, with that in mind, and set up a new agenda for our next one. Is everybody in agreement?”

There were a few grumbled “yes” responses and Clarke waited until the noises were made with more conviction before she went on to set up said agenda with the board members, finalising a date, time and location for their next gathering.

Clarke stood by the door as they prepared to filter out and held her hand out formally to each of them as they walked past. Some met her handshake with reluctance, others with diplomacy. Pike looked at her outstretched hand with an air of insolence and she thought, for a moment, he would ignore her attempts at reconciliation. Then, he took her hand firmly, looked her straight in the eyes with an unspoken promise that he would once again regain his position as influencer over the board members. She met the promise with one of her own. Clarke would rather see Arcadia burn than allow somebody like Pike to assume the role of Jake Griffin. Perhaps that was dramatic, but she had always been dictated by passion. She was, after all, an artist. Marcus and Thelonious were the final of the bunch to make their way to the exit. Clarke stopped the two, boldly fixing her eyes on them both, “I’m sure I don’t need to say this but I will, anyway.”

The two gentlemen watched her, quietly. They knew better than to try and defend their positions.

“I have known the both of you almost my entire life. My father was compassionate and he was loyal, two qualities I deeply admire. Frankly, I think he would be disturbed at how you have both conducted yourselves. So, consider this warning one of grace. You are both intelligent enough to understand the repercussions, but should either of you ever go behind my back again, I will not hesitate to relieve you of the extra comforts you receive being two of my father’s closest friends. Do you both understand me?”

Marcus bowed his head, “Yes, Clarke. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

“And mine, too.” Thelonious stated, holding out his hand.

“Accepted.” Clarke shook their hands and waited for the two of them to leave before she pulled out her phone, stopping the voice recording she had created. She attached it in an email and sent it immediately to her mother with a caption:

_Suspicions confirmed._

.::.::.::.::.::.

“No.”

“You can’t say ‘no’ to me like that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“It isn’t negotiable, Lexa.”

“I refuse to be dictated to.”

“Do you refuse to be a pussy too? Because that’s what you’re being right now.” 

“Mature, Anya.”

The music tutor had rested her elbows on the piano’s keyboard, the clash of notes eventually fading out into quiet, “Says you. What else could you possibly have planned for a Friday night? I’ve taught you all you need to know today. You’ve practiced the hell out of your violin. You’ve done studying, composition work and even worked on some recordings. What else do you have to do this evening?”

“Why do you even want me to come with you? Isn’t it weird for you to be hanging around with a load of people in their early to mid-twenties, anyway?”

“Jesus, how old do you think I am, Woods?” Anya stared at her tutee, incredulously, “No, really. How old?”

Lexa paused, thinking this over, “Actually, I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. Your soul is that of a 210-year-old’s but your body is that of a 22-year-old and your face is too intimidating for me to look at for longer than a few seconds, so I really couldn’t say. I just assumed you were in your 30s or something. How old are you?”

“I’m 28. What, three, four years older than you at best?”

Lexa nodded slowly, “I see.”

“You know, I used to like you, Woods.” Anya muttered before her expression changed suddenly, “Do you really think my soul is that old?”

She inclined her head in affirmation, “Certainly. Not a day younger.”

A small grin pulled at her tutor’s mouth and she rolled her eyes, “I hate how disarming you can be, sometimes.”

Lexa smirked, “No. You love it.”

“I do.” She lifted her elbows of the keys and released a sound of frustration, “That’s why I want you to come with tonight.”

“Why are you going? Do you even want to?”

Anya sighed, “Not especially but Lincoln is my cousin which annoyingly kind of makes Octavia family. Besides, their group is kind of the closest thing I have to having friends, so…”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“Of course, you’re not. Does it make a difference if I tell you Clarke will be there?”

Lexa shrugged, “I had already assumed as much so not particularly.”

“Can’t you just have normal social desires like everybody else?” She groaned.

“Can’t _you_?” The violinist returned, evenly.

“No! That’s the entire problem. Of _course,_ I can’t have normal social desires. That’s why I need you to have them instead. Be functional enough for the both of us. I don’t even live in the same house as my husband, for god’s sake!”

Lexa hid a smirk, going to put her violin away, “I’m just impressed that you’re even married, to tell the truth.”

“That makes the both of us.” She muttered, swinging her legs around the piano stool and leaning her back against the piano.

“Do you ever actually see him?”

Anya angled her head to look at Lexa with a raised eyebrow, “Don’t pretend you have a sudden interest in my marriage, Woods.”

She matched her tutor’s expression with ease, “Why?”

“Because we both know you don’t care.”

“I’m trying to develop normal social desires like you asked.” Her lips twitched in covert amusement, “So, tell me, Crainn, what do you love the most about your husband?”

“His wife.” She gave a salty smile.

“Now, there’s a sign of a healthy marriage.”

“My turn.” Anya leaned forwards, determined to outwit her tutee, “Why do you spend time with Clarke if you have no social desires?”

“Because I simply couldn’t _bear_ for yours to be the only face I ever saw. My turn.” Lexa zipped up her case, moving her full attention onto the older woman, “Why did you get married?”

“Convenience.”

“Not love?”

“My turn.” Anya smiled slightly, “Have you ever been in a relationship? Your violin doesn’t count.”

Lexa arched an eyebrow, planning on avoiding the question somehow but finding herself out of ideas, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“My turn.” The brunette paused before speaking, “Have you ever cheated on your husband?”

“It isn’t cheating if you have an arrangement.” Anya shrugged, “Why did your relationship end?”

“Because we broke up.”

“Obviously, but who broke up with who and why?” Anya knew she was asking more questions than she was allowed to, but she was enjoying herself far too much to stop.

“Is your husband in love with you?”

Something flickered behind the tutor’s gaze and she faltered before answering with sincerity, “Yes. More than is good for him. What’s your ex-boyfriend’s name?”

Lexa saw the way her eyes glittered sharply and she caught her own tongue, pressing her lips together tightly. Anya smirked widely after recovering from Lexa’s question, waiting arrogantly for her to speak.

The younger woman chose to remove herself from their competition entirely and took a step back, “I’m still not making promises about tonight, Anya. We have both just proved to each other that we should never be allowed to mix in groups of people who have normal social desires.”

Anya was quiet as she packed away her equipment. Neither felt uncomfortable when in silence so it didn’t feel strange. As they prepared to exit, the music tutor cleared her throat.

“My husband and I were married at a very young age.” She spoke, softly, “Too young, really.”

Lexa stopped and turned to look at her attentively.

“I had just turned 17. My parents didn’t give me the best start in life, not through any particular fault of their own. Music was all I had back then. My father was a criminal but he wasn’t a bad man. One day, something happened and he actually ended up saving another man’s life. The other man felt he owed a debt to my father. Instead of giving my father a lump sum of money for him to eventually squander, he offered for me to marry his son. It wouldn’t get my whole family out of debt but it would mean I could live comfortably enough not to fall into a life of crime myself, which I was dangerously close to doing. So, we married very soon afterwards. I was fortunate, really. He is a very good man. He never tried to control me. He understood I was young and he never pushed me to do anything. I love him, Lexa, but I never felt the same way about him that he did about me.” She shrugged, “When Jake Griffin discovered me about a year later, I gave most of my earnings back to my family and to my husband’s family. I repaid all of their debts and after a few years, I was able to start keeping my own money for myself. So, there you have it.”

Lexa smiled slightly, studying Anya for a prolonged moment, “Alright. Since you’ve shown me yours, I will show you mine. It isn’t nearly as wholesome as your story and definitely has a more disappointing ending, so don’t get your hopes up. You asked what my ex-boyfriend’s name was. Well, her name was Costia Rousseau.” She allowed an amused smile to grace her lips.

“The French violinist.” Anya inclined her head in understanding, “Nice catch.”

“She was.” Lexa smiled to herself, faintly, “Or, at least, that was what I thought. My Aunt Alie, however, didn’t agree. Alie is homophobic and controlling. She made a few very real threats about sabotaging my entire music career and preventing me from accessing funds if I continued to see Costia. Of course, I was willing at that point to give it all up for her so Costia and I planned to go to France to tour there. We never went in the end. Costia decided it was too stressful and that she wasn’t ready to come out back home. I understood and I agreed I would wait for her until she was ready. We put our plans on hold only for me to discover she had a male fiancé waiting for her back at home. A rich fiancé, might I add.” The violinist was able to see the humour in it all now she had moved past it, “When it all comes down to it, people care more about money than they do about love, don’t they?”

Anya inclined her head with a melancholy smile, “I wish I could say you’re wrong. You know, I think that’s why losing Jake was so hard for me, and for other people like us. Aside from his astounding talent that the rest of the world saw, Jake Griffin actually cared about people. He used his position to help people less fortunate. He believed in raw talent above all else. Did you know he planned on opening arts schools around the country to support underprivileged youth? I can’t imagine the directors really going ahead with that now he’s dead, though.”

Lexa frowned at the thought, “Do you think that’s something Clarke would try and go ahead with, now she’s taken his place?”

The older woman considered this as they hovered by the door to the practice room, “She never wanted to take his position. He near enough forced her into it. I wouldn’t blame her for taking a back seat and allowing the board to do whatever they please but, saying that, I know Clarke. I have known her almost as long as I’ve known Jake. She’s inherited his hero complex and her mother’s brutality. Frightening combination, really. Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her.”

Lexa inclined her head, her thoughts drifting to the blonde. She knew Anya was exactly right in the way she described her.

“Preaching to the choir there though, aren’t I?” Anya knocked Lexa’s arm with a firm shoulder, “You’ve seen Clarke’s dark side more times than anybody else.”

“I could put that on my resume.” She drawled, knowing she had been on the receiving end of Clarke’s kindness and fury many times in the past. In fact, she had seen multiple dimensions of the artist but, if she thought about it too deeply, she would lose herself completely. Truly, Clarke Griffin was astounding.

“So, I’ve decided that since the two of us can actually hold a deep and meaningful conversation for ten minutes, maybe we are more normal than we thought.” 

“You’re certainly not.” Lexa smirked as they headed out of the room. She managed to keep just far enough out of her tutor’s reach not to get a slap around the back of the head. The older woman was adamant she would be seeing Lexa later on that evening but, truthfully, the latter hadn’t made her mind up about it. The real reason was that she just couldn’t be bothered. She was tired from the series of early mornings and late nights she’d had over the last week. The thought of bed was far too enticing to ignore. When she arrived back to her place, she put away her equipment and immediately fell onto the mattress, her head sinking into the pillows.

The feeling of her phone vibrating against her ribs brought her sharply out of her nap and she blinked, readjusting to the darkness that had befallen her bedroom. Recalling the reason why she’d woken up so suddenly, Lexa felt for her phone on the bed, seeing a message from Clarke. Automatically, her chest settled at the sight of her name and she leaned back into the pillows, taking another moment to ground herself before she opened the message.

_From: Clarke_

_[19:36] Check your email (I found your address on your business card)_

Sure enough, Lexa had a notification from Clarke Griffin’s work email and she opened it up, wondering what on earth the artist could be sending her.

_Subject: Urgent Business Proposal – Respond ASAP_

_To whom it may concern (you, Lexa),_

_Please direct the relevant party to the information displayed below (again, that’s still you, Lexa)._

_ Appendix A – Business proposal to invite the relevant party (you, Lexa Woods, professional violinist and freelancing model) to social gathering  _

_Submitted to you, Lexa Woods, professional violinist, freelancing model and part-time war commander, by Clarke Griffin (me) on behalf of Clarke Griffin (me, again)._

_ Summary _ : 

_This case is to propose that the above-mentioned relevant party should attend Octavia Blake’s send-off prior to her departure to New Zealand. As discussed with the team, it has been agreed that Lexa Woods’ presence would positively impact the quality and condition of the social gathering hereto._

_ Rationale: _

_Because it would be excellent for the writer to see the relevant party (you, Lexa Woods, professional violinist, freelancing model, part-time war commander and tear absorber) when the writer is not ugly crying all over said relevant party. The writer is obliged to allow the relevant party to witness the writer’s embarrassing intoxicated dancing as a form of recompense._

_ Conditions: _

_There are none. The relevant party does not have to engage with anybody she does not wish to. She does not have to consume libation unless she is so inclined. She does not need to dance, smile, or pretend to be interested in any other parties present. She can leave at any point she wishes and she does not need to justify her actions for doing so. She does not need to put up with the writer’s tendency of becoming a brat when drinking one of John Murphy’s homemade cocktails. To note, there will be no cocktails of that description in the centre of London, unless John Murphy sneaks a hipflask, which he has been known to do on occasion. _

_ Economic estimation:  _

_It is the middle of London and drinks are expensive. Your expense is within your own control. The writer will be paying more than anybody else when she is witnessed by the public consuming alcohol after several days of going without._

_Location: Sapphire Lounge_

_Date: Today (whatever that is)_

_Time: 22:00_

_Duration: Until everything becomes too much to deal with_

_Please respond to the writer promptly as she gets very anxious very easily,_

_Yours,_

_Clarke Griffin (me)_

_P.S. I have been in a meeting for most of the afternoon with many misogynistic men and it has clearly taken a negative toll on my sanity. I also obviously now think I run some kind of business, or something._

Lexa read through the business proposal more than once, initially bewildered but quickly entertained. Clarke was inventive; she had to give her that. She debated how to respond, arguing between a short, one-worded answer or an elaborate email of a similar nature. In the end, she settled on something in between.

_To Clarke Griffin (painter, sculptor, sketcher, luthier, woodworker, singer, volleyball and badminton hobbyist, dancer – drunk dancing counts, tea connoisseur, egg and crumpet master-chef and chairperson of the entire goddamn establishment),_

_I hope this email finds you well and unplagued by anxiety._

_I was fortunate enough for your notifications to prompt me awake from my power-nap (I’ve learned that’s what adults call ‘sleeping at inappropriate times in the day’). I have given your business proposal a great deal of consideration and I am pleased to confirm that I have accepted your case. Had I received such an email about two hours prior, the outcome may have been entirely different._

_Your post-scriptum incited curiosity. In recompense, alongside witnessing your inebriated dancing, I hope you will give me the full details of misogyny._

_Kind regards,_

_Lexa Woods, a mere mortal_

The text from Clarke arrived very shortly afterwards.

_From: Clarke_

_[19:51] “A mere mortal”_

_[19:51] Bollocks_


	21. Chapter 20 - Half-Finished Sentences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back on nights at the moment and don't currently have the brain capacity to edit the chapter the way I usually would, so forgive any errors please! Due to being ill recently and working far more than I'd like to, I only have the next couple of chapters completed following this. Although I will try to get more done, there is a chance that I will have to slow down the updates after I've released them as I've had to take a bit of a break from writing over the last few weeks. 
> 
> Enjoy.

The lights were hotter than Clarke had ever felt them before, the ground pulsing with a soft and sustaining bass. It was Octavia all over. The Sapphire Lounge was upmarket but on a totally different street to the mainstream clubs. It was a good starter place to build vibrations and lacked the less-likeable crowds. The group were seated in their own booth, secluded with lengthened settees and a table in the centre that was concealed completely by drinks. Lexa looked the part that evening, dressed in the sort of attire that shaped each pleasant proportion of her figure. She was in dark grey, skin shimmering bronze beneath the lights, chestnut hair pulled around one side of her neck. She had arrived with Anya, expression masked and cool. She could have passed off as a regular to the venue such was her natural comfort in controlling the space around her. Pale eyes slid across the vicinity of the room, finding Clarke’s within seconds.

Murphy was sitting beside his tutee, arm draped over the back of the cushioned couch, but he stopped mid-sentence when it became apparent Clarke was no longer listening. He followed her gaze, quickly enlightened as to the reason why. He just smirked and evidently decided their conversation could wait until she was ready to return to the present. His amusement was short-lived though and was speedily turned into irritation as the two musicians were intercepted by Ash on her way back from the bar. Clarke stiffened marginally but somehow managed to pass it off as a spontaneous change in position.

Lexa’s gaze lingered on Clarke’s for a second longer before she moved her attention to the singer. Anya received the initiation with less dignity and disengaged from the conversation altogether, becoming briefly occupied with her phone in order to wait for it all to pass. Occasionally, Clarke noticed Lexa’s eyes would drift to glance just over Ash’s shoulder, running subtly over her blonde hair. Clarke played along for the first few seconds, before she eventually tired of watching them and flickered her gaze over to Bellamy at the opposite side of the circle. It seemed he’d given up on chasing Ash. She was momentarily distracted by watching him and Raven share uncomfortable small-talk. Raven could be painfully socially awkward when sober.

“I just don’t get that.” Clarke frowned.

“Me either.” Murphy agreed.

Creasing her eyebrows, she turned to look at him in mild confusion, “But you don’t know what I’m about to say.”

“Oh.” he shifted his attention back to her, “I just assumed you were talking about Ash sucking up to our girl at every possible opportunity.”

“No. I was talking about how two people can manage to have intercourse but then be completely incapable of holding a normal conversation afterwards. Wait, ‘our girl’?” Clarke repeated.

“Well, it isn’t fair for you to have her all the time, you know.”

She scoffed in disbelief and took a sip of her gin, “Right. She doesn’t belong to either of us, Murphy. Stop making it weird.”

He peered at her cocktail and dipped his straw into the contents, sampling a taste before he spoke again, “Remind me to get her to wear that dress when she next comes to model.”

“Just add it as a reminder on your phone’s calendar, or something. Feels like the sort of creepy thing you’d do.”

But Murphy had already moved on from that conversation, his voice lowering conspiratorially, “So, I did some digging on our little singer friend over there.”

“I hope you cleared your browser afterwards.”

“What, are you from the Dark Ages? I went incognito. I don’t need cookies on my computer to start advertising her next gig when I’m trying to shop for shoes. No, listen, I learned something about her. She’s done jailtime before, Griffin. Actual jailtime.”

“So?” She shrugged, “I’m sure you’ve done things you could get jailed for, Murph.”

“Of course, I have. I’ve just never been caught. You’d have thought her family would have paid bail though, wouldn’t you?”

She shrugged again, “I don’t know because I don’t know anything about her family.”

“Don’t you want to know what she got done for?”

“Not particularly, but I can tell you’re dying to tell me.”

Murphy took a delicate sip of his own drink before continuing, “Ugh, you’re making this entire thing no fun whatsoever. Can’t you just buy into my bullshit story?”

Clarke raised her eyebrows, “No because she hasn’t done jailtime, has she?”

“No, not to my knowledge but thanks for ruining everything.”

“You’re welcome. So, what did you actually learn?”

He sighed, “Well, I was being dramatic before. She never actually served time but she did have a few court appearances. Obviously, her bail got paid off. Mostly it’s just drunk and disorderly, smashing up her ex-boyfriend’s car, possession of drugs. That sort of thing.”

“All the boring stuff, then.”

“ _You’re_ boring.” He retorted, a brief quiet passing between them before he spoke again, “Come on, I’m trying to be supportive of how much you hate her.”

“I don’t hate her, Murphy. I don’t particularly like her but, beyond that, I don’t really care.”

“I mean, sure, I’d believe that if you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes looking daggers at the two of them.”

“I wasn’t–” She caught herself, realising that the more defensive she appeared, the more likely it was that Murphy would make fun of her, “Fine. There might have been a dagger or two but they were microscopic and… blunt.”

“Okay, Griffin.” Murphy patted her thigh lightly, “Don’t you wonder what her deal is though? Do you think she’s, like, into both?”

“What, are you asking me if I think she’s bi?” Clarke raised an eyebrow in grim amusement, “Well, since she’s literally talking to Lexa’s breasts, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Do you feel threatened?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, Murphy, because up until this point, I was convinced I was the only bisexual female in the entire city.”

His mouth twitched in amusement, “What do you think she wants from her, anyway? Lexa is a classical violinist. She’s way up top. Has actual talent, you know? Ash is, what, an averagely talented singer who mostly poses half naked in her music videos instead of actually using her voice.”

“You’ve been watching her music videos?” Clarke scoffed.

“Griffin, I’m only human. She has a very ample bosom.”

She rolled her eyes, “I couldn’t tell you but Lexa doesn’t seem to mind so I can’t see that it’s any of my business. That being said, I will point out that you drooled all over yourself the first time you saw her. You actually pursued her to model for you so you should be able to answer your question yourself. Why does anybody want anybody?”

Murphy sipped his drink, continuing to people-watch over the rim of his glass, “You know I’m just giving you a hard time, right?”

“You’re trying to, at least. Wish I knew why.”

“We’re beyond pretences, Griffin.” He said, seriously.

She fixed her attention on the table in the centre, realising it was pointless to contest him, “Can we talk about actual issues instead, like when you’re planning on talking to Emori?”

“I’ve spoken to her already, actually. She’s visiting in a couple of weeks.”

Clarke blinked at this information, “Really? Are you shitting me?”

He shook his head, slightly, “Not shitting you. She’s going to come over to do some collaborations with me.”

“Collabs in the bedroom?” She smirked, pleased she could finally turn the tables.

He nudged her knee with his, “Oh, grow up.”

She laughed, “Rich coming from you, pervert. Is her husband joining?”

Murphy shrugged, “I hope not. She said he might change his mind and decide to come over but it probably wouldn’t be for the full duration.”

“Don’t you think it will bother you eventually that she’s married?”

“Not my problem. She’s clearly not in love with him, so what does marriage matter when all’s said and done?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Clarke sighed, “Well, I’m going to get another drink while you ponder that. You want one?”

“Absolutely. Surprise me. I’ll keep the seats warm.”

Clarke slid away from the circle and headed to the bar, knowing Murphy was only fixating so much on the connection between Clarke and Lexa because he was going through his own problems. He’d created a lot of art recently that had evidently been inspired by the married artist. Despite what he said, her marital status got to him more than he let on.

“Hey, Clarke.”

It was surprising to hear the sound of Wells voice behind her but she adapted to the moment with a polite smile as she turned to greet him, “Hello.”

He rested his elbow on the bar beside her, waiting for her to place her order before he spoke again, “So, I heard you gave the board a bollocking today.”

“Where did you hear that?” She asked.

Wells grinned, a sight she hadn’t seen in months. It filled her with nostalgia. “My dad told me.”

“He did, huh?” Clarke raised her eyebrows.

She hadn’t expected that Thelonious Jaha would have been quite so open about the schooling.

“Yeah. I think you made quite an impression on him, actually. He started the charity proposal thing pretty soon after.”

She smiled faintly, “I imagine he had one or two choice words to say about me though, right?”

“Not as much as I was expecting, no.”

Clarke stopped then, her expression freezing. For a moment, Wells didn’t pick up on her suspicion, “You were expecting him to have choice words about me?”

“I’ve seen you mad before, Clarke.” He laughed, “So, yeah.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” She quickly reached over to pay the bartender, shifting down the bar to make room for the next customers. She knocked back a shot and placed the glass back on the surface.

Wells’ smile faded quickly and he scratched the back of his head, “Uh, what?”

“You’re the anonymous tipper, aren’t you? You sent the email.”

He glanced away suddenly, “Shit.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell your dad if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“He would kill me, Clarke.” He said, quietly, “Actually kill me.”

“Maybe.” She nodded, solemnly, “But I would have killed you if I found out you knew and didn’t tell me.”

He met her eyes, sheepishly, “So, you don’t still want to kill me?

“Too messy, Jaha.” She smirked, “Although, I could be tempted to do an interesting canvas with your intestines.”

He grimaced, ever squeamish, “Please don’t. Seriously though, Clarke, I did some unforgivable things. I understand if you’re still pissed off. I know I would be.”

“I’d prefer it if we could just forget about it and move on. Maybe go back to being friends. What do you think?”

He nodded, keenly, “I’d like that, yeah.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to get Murphy his drink before he starts throwing things.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes earnestly, “Thank you for the tip, Wells. I appreciate it far more than you know.”

She started to make her way back to the circle as he took a place in the queue but faltered with immediacy the moment that she focused her attention on the sight before her. It had been long enough since Clarke had experienced the excruciating desire to touch someone that the experience itself could have been passed off as a delusion. She sometimes wondered whether she’d ever really felt such a desire at all.

Yet, she knew such a feeling could exist the moment her eyes met pale green. It was there, beating in her chest and lodging in her throat. She couldn’t even place why it was happening to her then. She had already seen exactly how she looked. Already seen the way she moved. Already caught her eye once or twice. So, why did such a profound feeling punch her in the gut so unexpectedly? Lexa moved towards her, all calm and composed, and it was maddening. Clarke wanted to pierce straight through that mask she’d worn since the moment she stepped into the vicinity and her muscles clenched tightly at the thought. But then, the second Lexa approached her, she saw the mask slip of its own accord. The illusion was shattered when a small smile graced her lips. The concrete stare she so easily directed towards everybody else had dissolved instantly, leaving in its place a familiarity, a warmth. So, she was human, after all.

“Hello, Clarke.”

That was when she knew. She knew exactly why such a desire had taken control over her body and it wasn’t just because she now had a close-up of the violinist. It wasn’t just because she could smell the delicate scent of her skin. It wasn’t just because the darkened shade of her lips contrasted perfectly with the light of her irises. It was because Clarke had touched her last time they met. It was because she looked at her and recalled exactly how natural, how comforting, how intoxicating it had felt to be pressed against the brunette. As Lexa had neared her, she could almost feel that comfort once more. It was within arms’ reach. She felt suddenly starved of it. She needed it.

And, surely, that wasn’t healthy.

Not at all.

Embarrassed, something stuttered in her pattern of, well, existing and she blinked, finally urging herself to respond, “I – hello.”

Lexa arched an eyebrow with subtlety, betraying a small sign of amusement, “Are you alright?”

Clarke’s heart fluttered in her chest and the moisture evaporated from her throat, “I think so.”

“I suppose that’s the most I could ask for.” She returned, her tone nudging on something playful.

“How are you?” The artist managed, just about recalling who and where she was.

The corners of Lexa’s lips lifted a touch more, obviously still amused by Clarke’s inability to properly behave as a regular human being, “I’m feeling much better after my adult power nap.”

Clarke nodded, dumbly. It was highly uncharacteristic for her to be suddenly so incapable of constructing even a vaguely witty response. She could usually do so without so much as blinking. Yet, she had blinked three times already without saying a word.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” There was something of underlying concern behind the violinist’s eyes and she automatically inched closer.

Clarke was hopeful that the floor would suddenly gape open wide before her and she could step into the vast hole as a speedy escape. Something told her that Lexa would catch her before she undertook such a foolish mission, though. That thought wasn’t helpful to the situation, either.

“I’m sorry. I appear to have broken. I think I need to reboot.” She took a prolonged sip of her drink and allowed herself a moment to breathe, “And I’m back, I think.”

“Good, I was starting to worry.” Lexa smiled, albeit a little cautiously.

“Are you drinking tonight?”

She shrugged slightly, “I imagine it’s the only way I’m going to make it past eleven o’clock.”

“Well, you’ve got seven minutes.” Clarke glanced at her phone, “So, you’d better hurry.”

“I think Anya will probably hunt me down if I don’t get a drink to her within the next three minutes if I’m being honest. Me getting to eleven o’clock is the least of my worries.”

“And she is literally about seven metres away. Her hunting you down would take less than twenty seconds.”

“I would wager less than ten.”

Clarke released a soft breath of laughter, “You’d best get to it, then. I’m going to get this drink to Murphy. See you back there?”

Lexa inclined her head, her eyes remaining on Clarke’s for just two seconds longer before she stepped up to the bar. Clarke was truthfully very grateful for the opportunity to collect herself. It was important that she did because she had been speaking to Lexa for all of a minute – two at most – and already, she was falling apart. Of course, she was in no way certain of what it was she even wanted. All she knew was that, every time she looked at Lexa, she felt this crippling urge to reach out and touch her. To connect with her.

“Well, it’s about time, Griffin. Jesus. Did you get lost?” Murphy took the drink from her hand and then double-took when he realised that he hadn’t received a snarky reply, “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Stop asking me.” She snapped.

“But that’s the first time I–”

“–I know, goddammit.” She muttered, gulping back a number of mouthfuls until her glass was almost empty. She took a measured breath and glanced over to him as he raised both eyebrows, motioning with his hand as if to seal his lips. “Sorry. I’m just, I don’t know, damaged or something.”

Murphy watched her silently, probably wondering whether to agree or disagree. In the end, he opted for a quiet sip of his drink. Clarke glanced about her for a distraction, realising she’d already greeted most of the people in the circle that she knew and didn’t have any particular desire to start making the rounds again. Had she not been experiencing a quarter-life crisis, she probably would have struck up easy conversation with Bellamy. She noticed Anya speaking with Lincoln and Octavia. She made a mental note to tease the music tutor later about her change in presentation; she was watching Octavia attentively, almost warmly. It was uncharacteristic. The teasing would have to wait when Clarke was feeling less vulnerable, though.

“Here.”

She turned, finding a drink being deposited into her grip, pale eyes falling on hers. It was too soon. Clarke hadn’t quite managed to organise herself by that point and was still aiming to find a peaceful compromise between the internal conflicts she faced.

“What’s this for?” She asked, her voice a pitch lower than usual.

“To drink, Clarke.”

“No shit.” She feigned surprise, looking between Lexa and the drink she’d given to her. The brunette just quirked an eyebrow, almost daring her to continue with her sass. “Why?” Clarke asked, tilting her head to one side, blonde hair falling over her shoulder at the movement.

“Because I just watched you cane your last one.”

Clarke couldn’t dispute her logic on that and she just gave a small smile, dropping her front of mockery, “Well, thank you. Do you, uh, want to sit?” She gestured to the unoccupied space beside Murphy.

Lexa nodded, glancing over to her tutor, “Yes, save me a spot. I’ll just go and rehydrate Anya first.”

The artist watched her go and lowered herself down onto the seat, placing her drink on the centre table.

“Feeling better now?” Murphy asked, barely even trying to smother his smirk.

“I think I am.” She smoothed out her skirt, nudging his arm playfully, “Not that you’ve been any help.”

He opened his mouth to offer a retort but immediately switched his demeanour upon Lexa’s return, “Miss Woods,” he extended a hand and shook hers with a charming smile, “you look marvellous, as always.”

“Thank you, John.” She retracted her hand and sat delicately on the other side of Clarke, “Have you polished your shoes?”

His smile stretched wider, “I have actually. Thank you for noticing. Now, forgive me, but I must go and speak with your tutor about something. We’ll catch up soon though, I’m sure. It won’t be long before this bunch get too rowdy to stay in this sort of lounge.” He excused himself and stood up, swanning over to Anya. Clarke narrowed her eyes as he left, knowing he never did anything without first having some sort of ulterior motive.

When he’d left, there was a moment of palpable silence between them, Clarke choosing to have another mouthful of her drink as she leaned back into the seat. She wasn’t going to break it with small talk. Surprisingly, Lexa was the first to have something to say and she angled her body towards the blonde’s, one elbow resting on the back of the seat, “So, I believe part of the deal in me coming here was for you to tell me all about your misogynistic encounters today.”

Clarke laughed softly, “Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for this.” She summarised the events of the day, gradually becoming more and more animated, either due to the increasing levels of alcohol in her system or due to her investment into the story she told. When Clarke really paid attention to the finer details of Lexa’s face, she could see the marginal shifts in expression as the story progressed; the way her lips would twitch in amusement, the way her eyebrows would crease in anger, the way her eyes would flicker in surprise. She was listening to every word Clarke spoke and it was endearing to behold.

Only when Clarke had stopped speaking did Lexa finally open her lips to contribute, “So, you believe in your father’s cause?” She asked.

“About supporting people who aren’t rich enough to pursue their dreams?” Clarke clarified, and nodded, “Of course. I told you from the start I’ve always despised the culture Arcadia adopts. Even though I don’t feel the full brunt of it, I am in a position now where I can advocate for those who do.”

Lexa took a slow breath inward, her eyes fixing on Clarke’s. She looked as though she was preparing herself to say something but ultimately had hit a dead end.

“What is it?” The artist moved so she was facing the young woman beside her, returning the fullness of her pale gaze with intrigue.

“You’re just…” Lexa pressed her lips together momentarily before she released the pressure again, “people like you are rare, Clarke. So rare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people go their entire lives without experiencing kindness.” She shrugged, “And when, or if, they feel it for the first time, it can completely change everything. I think about the kindness you’ve shown to me and how much I learned from it, and I know that there are so many people out there who are waiting to experience that same kindness for the first time. People who have nothing except the artistry they create. So, for you to acknowledge that and go ahead with it anyway, despite the risks, is incredible.”

“Well, you say I taught you things but really, it was the other way around. If it wasn’t for my father’s cause, I wouldn’t really understand the struggles other people go through. I wouldn’t realise how robbed the world has been, and could still be, of exceptional talent just because somebody doesn’t have the money to pay for education. I wouldn’t have met Anya. I wouldn’t have met you.” She felt her teeth come to rest on her lower lip for a few passing seconds, “And honestly? That’s a sort of frightening thought.”

“Not to have met Anya?” Lexa teased, her lips curving upwards.

“Definitely.” Clarke smirked, “I mean, you’re okay too, I guess.”

“Thanks. I’m touched.”

She laughed, reaching for another sip of her drink, “I do mean it, though. You taught me that it’s possible to defy the odds and that it’s possible to reach out to an entire nation using the language of music alone. You’d have thought my dad would’ve taught me that but it was you.” She internally begged that the thrumming of her heart against her ribcage wasn’t going to give everything away but she could feel the burning tension taking over, “You’ve reached me at times when nobody else could.”

“Do you want to know what you taught me?”

“What?” Clarke could barely pull in the air she needed to supply her body with the oxygen it needed. She was aware that their hands were both resting on the cushion between them, only inches apart.

“You taught me it’s possible to look excellent in paint-stained clothes.”

Clarke laughed, grateful for the brief release, but it was short-lived when she watched the humour fade from Lexa’s eyes.

“You taught me that it’s okay to trust people and still trust myself. You taught me that I don’t have to be alone.” 

She fell captive to her pale gaze once more, absorbing the reality of her words.

Lexa’s chest was so still that Clarke wondered whether she was breathing at all. The violinist didn’t blink. She simply inched closer. Their knuckles grazed hesitantly on the seat between them. It was exactly what Clarke had been craving since the start of the evening and the sensation of their skins brushing provided her with such intense relief that her breath escaped her in a low gasp. Lexa seemed to hang on the sound, eyes flickering down to Clarke’s mouth.

The artist was the first to move her hand closer. Her fingers found Lexa’s and she covered her hand with her own. She could feel the stutter of Lexa’s pulse as her palm hovered over the delicate skin of her wrist. The brunette was cold to touch, or perhaps Clarke was just overheating. Slowly, so slowly that it could barely be noticed by any potential onlookers, she finally linked their fingers together, feeling the affirmation when Lexa gently squeezed her hand in return. The two broke eye contact, knowing that it would have been too much, too telling, too obvious to remain in such a precarious position. Looking at each other was one thing and touching was another, but to do both at the same time felt too sacred for such a place. Before, there had been a reason for their bodies to touch. It was for Lexa to provide support to Clarke during a painful moment in her life. This time, there was no reason except that each of them wanted to feel the contact again. That, in itself, was reason enough.

Clarke knew there had always been a pull there between them. Whether defined or recognised as something spiteful and dark or as something addictive and comforting. Whatever it was, the feeling had always been insatiable. There was no reason why that moment would be any different. The simple touch was enough for a few seconds, maybe half a minute, but then it stopped being enough. Became a taste. A tease. As if she felt it too, Lexa moved her body closer to Clarke’s so their hands were pressed carefully between them.

The moment was over all too soon when Anya eventually dropped Murphy at the bar and wandered over to them, eyes flickering between them both. She didn’t comment on their proximity, or on the way they unwillingly disconnected their hands, “Hey, think people are talking about finishing up their drinks and moving on.”

Lexa nodded, saying nothing.

“Haven’t said hello to you, yet.” Anya turned her attention to Clarke, “You alright?”

“Don’t ask her that. She’ll have a fit at you.” Murphy remarked, smoothly sidling his way to stand beside the music tutor.

Anya briefly creased her eyebrows in confusion but didn’t care enough to ask for an explanation. Clarke didn’t even acknowledge his comment and instead spoke to Anya directly, “I’m good, thank you. You?”

“I’d be better without this limpet latching himself onto me at every opportunity.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Murphy shook his head in confident rebuttal.

“So, I noticed you seem to be better behaved towards Octavia.” Clarke observed, finishing off her drink with a smirk, “Is she growing on you?”

Anya raised her eyebrows, unimpressed, “Yes, I like her better than you now.”

At the sound of her name, the woman in question overheard her name as she walked by and immediately invited herself into the conversation, “What?”

“Even if that were true, I couldn’t be offended. Octavia surpasses me in just about every regard.” Clarke answered, offering an appealing smile over to her friend, “Isn’t that right?”

“What do you mean ‘just about every regard’?” She raised her eyebrows, falling on the unoccupied space to the left of Clarke.

“My mistake, darling. Of course, I meant you surpass me in _every_ regard.”

Octavia grinned hazily, taking Clarke’s hand in her own, “It’s a shame I’m spoken for or you’d have me seduced in moments with that sort of talk.”

“I’m certain I could seduce you, regardless.”

“Probably.” Octavia laughed and leaned back into the settee, “Are you all just about ready to move on?”

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“338.”

“Wow, okay. Getting straight to the point, then?”

She nodded eagerly, “You know I love the lasers.”

Clarke just laughed, “I do. Alright. We’d better start making a move, then.”

“Are we on the guest list?” Murphy asked.

“Scared of queueing, Murph?” Clarke teased, already knowing very well that queuing wasn’t at all his style.

“Don’t you worry. It’s taken care of.” Octavia assured him with a smile, standing up and going to round up the others.

“Thank god for that.” Murphy straightened out his shirt collar and brushed out a non-existent crease from his trouser leg.

“You know what, Murphy? Tonight, after you’ve had enough of sweaty bodies and lasers, I’m going to take you to a dive bar.”

“You’re bloody well not.”

“I bloody well am. You owe me.”

He laughed aloud, “I owe you? What do I owe _you_?”

“Oh, you know, just everything.” She smiled sweetly.

“I think I’d rather live the rest of my life in debt if that’s the case.”

Upon arriving at the club, Clarke realised she was probably still too sober to handle the throbbing nightlife of England’s capital. It was still an odd concept for her to see 18-year-olds getting completely obliterated in public venues and it made her feel relatively aged. Octavia was still youthful enough for the scene to be exciting rather than strange and she was, no doubt, once one of those 18-year-olds. In fact, she’d probably been one of those 18-year-olds since her 16th birthday. The bars inside were busy and it worked out to be less-time consuming to buy multiple drinks all at once. Murphy had already been bullied into handing out tequilas to everybody within his immediate vicinity. Within at least thirty minutes, the majority of the party members were sliding down the slippery slope to intemperance.

The bass was heavier than Clarke had felt it before and it powered through her chest as they made their way to the main part of the dancefloor. Surprisingly, there was enough room for most of them to fit together. It didn’t make too much of a difference though because the music drowned out most of what other people were saying, anyway. Before she could let herself slip into the rhythm under her feet, Clarke submitted to absorbing the sights around her. Her favourite part about nights out was watching how people behaved when their inhibitions faded. It seemed Raven and Bellamy were suited much more to an environment where they didn’t have to talk to each other and Clarke found herself snorting to herself as they gave up on pretending to be interested in what the other had to say, choosing to dirty dance instead. Octavia was backing up against Lincoln, basking in the attention she received from his hands. Jasper and Monty had their heads together, probably just doing drugs in their fancy patterned shirts. Ash’s friends were all dancing together but she was absent. Clarke knew exactly where she’d find her and she avoided seeking out the sight, fearing what sort of effect it would have on her chest. Instead, she flickered her watchful gaze to the other areas of the group, making eye contact with Murphy through the darkness. He smirked, raising his drink in her direction, because he was doing much the same as she was and it amused him that they’d caught each other out. Wells had found somebody external to the group to dance with and was busy throwing back another shot as his large frame rolled to the music.

It was unavoidable. She knew it was. She was trying not to find Lexa but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes landed on her standing a few yards away, Ash moving close into her personal space. Clarke expected the feeling that tore through her chest. She had no right to feel it, but she did anyway. Murphy had somehow managed to make his way towards her and he rested a hand on her shoulder, “Griffin,” he began, lowering his mouth to her ear, “stop standing there like a creep and go get her.”

“What?” She raised her voice above the noise, turning to face him.

“Just, just stop being a nob and go and fucking get her, will you?” He gave her a drunken shove forwards and she had to catch her step to avoid knocking into Anya on her way past. She wasn’t sure she could realistically take Murphy up on his advice. It wasn’t quite as simple as just ‘going to get her’ so instead of walking towards them, as he had intended, she made her way over to the bar instead, landing herself in an unpleasantly long queue. She glanced awkwardly over her shoulder to see Murphy hide his face in his hand, despairingly. She moved her attention away from him, briefly glancing back over at Lexa and Ash, only to see the lasers illuminate her pale stare. She was looking directly at Clarke and it felt like she had been for some time. Clarke let a small smile tug at her lips before she broke away, moving forwards in the queue.

“Why are you like this, Griffin?” She muttered to herself. When she eventually got herself a couple of drinks, she stepped away from the bar, making her mind up it was time to dance. She couldn’t spend the entire night getting angry at herself for being suddenly incapable of socialising. She made her way back to the crowd, knocking back one of her drinks. Once she’d rid herself of the cup, she slowly succumbed to the overwhelming pace of the bass as it thudded through her bones, the ache she’d felt there previously starting to subside. The humid air around her tightened and loosened like a pulse, carrying the movement of her hips. The energy seemed to sweep over the room like black magic, pulling Clarke in with it. She was naturally programmed to respond to anything rhythmic, whether she wanted to or not – usually, she didn’t – but there was no fighting the instinctive urge when everybody else around her had bowed to it too.

She watched Anya with a sort of misty amusement as she moved, appearing almost like a shark gliding through black waters, and fixed her attention silently on Raven. That wasn’t the amusing part, though. No, watching Anya in that state was nothing short of terrifying. The amusing part was seeing Raven falter in her rhythm after dancing without a misstep with Bellamy. She could see the lights hit the white toothed grin on Anya’s face. Clarke stopped breathing, but still swayed, as she watched Raven overcome her doubt and bravely step into Anya’s space. It seemed they were evenly matched, after all.

Her eyes once again drifted imprecisely over the dancing silhouettes nearby but their circuit stopped the second that they landed on the slim figure standing a few steps away. Lexa had been watching her with a stare that weighed on her body like lead. She realised she’d been caught out the moment her eyes flickered to Clarke’s but she couldn’t even pretend to have been looking elsewhere. It was late, but the artist finally took her tutor up on his advice.

She went to get her.

She ghosted towards the brunette, manoeuvring her way through the bodies between them until she had accommodated herself into Lexa’s space with ease. The latter had no complaints, her own body quickly reading Clarke’s movements and reflecting them with her own. They had been here before, at Raven’s party. Their bodies had been desperate to collide and breathe with the rhythm but had been interrupted by tactless verbal interaction. This time, Clarke decided she wasn’t going to ruin it by opening her lips and speaking. To make sure of it, she bit down on her lip, hand carefully moving to Lexa’s shoulder. The latter stepped closer into Clarke’s space, taking a hold of her hips. The way her thumb pushed against the tender spot on the inside of her pelvis did nothing to quell the fire that was already burning in her chest.

The beat progressed, pushing them closer together while the humidity pressed down on them from above. It was stifling and addictive all at once. Neither had said a word. Neither had needed to. Clarke used Lexa’s half-lidded eyes as an anchor point, returning to look at them every time she strayed. Her hips rolled once, twice, and then again, this time pushing lightly against Lexa’s. The brunette’s jaw fell completely slack at the contact, hands tightening automatically on the hips that had just provoked such a reaction. Clarke’s hand slid further around her shoulder, eventually coming to press against the back of her neck, fingertips grazing over olive skin.

It was all new this time. It was new and it was dangerous. Yet, neither appeared to even consider the option of breaking apart, of putting some safe distance between them. It wasn’t viable. They felt invisible. Clarke’s fingers curled around the back of her neck. Directing her head marginally closer to her own. She couldn’t openly admit to the sinful thoughts that crept into her mind uninvited, but she wasn’t planning on pushing them away either. It wasn’t that she was thinking up crass scenarios. She was thinking only of what could happen in the next minute and nothing beyond that. She was consumed by savouring the sensation of having a warm body pushing into hers. She presumed Lexa was probably feeling much the same way judging by the way her barriers had fallen away completely. She recalled the brunette had enjoyed the feeling of having Clarke’s hips against her own. So, she rolled them again.

“Shit.”

She didn’t imagine it. It seemed Lexa was as surprised to hear herself swear as Clarke had been. The artist simply let a smirk relax on her lips, angling her head to one side. She could see Lexa’s cheeks darken even beneath the plaguing artificial lights. She knew how quickly provoking that reaction from the violinist could become an addiction and it took all she had not to do it again.

But she wanted to.

_God_ , did she want to.

Time slipped by unnoticeably. The only thing that marked the progression of the minutes that passed was when one song finished and the next one began. Even then, the set all merged into one continuous, thumping tempo.

Clarke’s hand inched upwards, her fingers slipping between the soft locks of chestnut brown and she tightened her grip briefly, experimentally. She wanted to watch what Lexa’s face did. She wasn’t disappointed by the results. The muscle of her sharp jaw tensed, eyes rolling dizzily into her head. It seemed she liked that, too. In automatic response, Lexa’s hands tightened Clarke’s hipbones in an unyielding vice grip. She was fighting for control. Not over Clarke, but over herself. Increasingly, she seemed to be losing it. Despite enjoying such reactions, the artist didn’t want her to struggle. She didn’t want her to feel overwhelmed or helpless. Carefully, she took a step back, sliding her hand to cover one of Lexa’s, and she pulled her a few paces away so they were both concealed from the rest of the dancefloor by a thick, dark pillar. Moisture clung to the paint and it was sticky to the touch. Neither seemed to care. They were far too preoccupied in exploring the limits of the other, and even testing the boundaries of themselves. This was unfamiliar territory and it was as terrifying as it was exciting.

Clarke was a natural at teasing. She knew exactly how to do it. She was good at recognising what people wanted and offering them a simple taste before she took it away with demands of her own. With Lexa though, she knew there was only so much she could get away with. Sure enough, when Clarke put some distance between their bodies, moving her hips to the beat, Lexa fixed her stare on tainted blue. The moment that Clarke stepped back within reach she moved her talented hands to grapple her waist. She didn’t let her escape again. She kept her in position, barely moving herself. Clarke understood then. She knew what the brunette wanted.

With deliberation, the artist halved her speed, body moving with the same skill but slower, deeper. When her eyes flickered to meet pale green through the darkness, it was with unmistakeable sensuality.

“Clarke.”

Had she not been assiduously watching Lexa’s lips she might not have noticed her speaking her name. She worked her body upwards, pausing as they levelled as opposites, “Yes?”

“Clarke.” Lexa breathed again. She was desperate for an explanation, for something.

With a gentleness, the blonde slid both arms around Lexa’s neck, moving a step closer so the fabric of their clothing brushed, “Yes.” She repeated but, this time, it wasn’t a question. It was an answer. It was confirmation.

Their lips neared, mouths bursting into flames the moment they touched. It couldn’t be written in words nor painted in a picture. It was powerful, too powerful, to depict. She was soft to the touch. She was soft and her kiss was delicate. Chaste. It contrasted completely with the mood of their dancing, with the suffocation of a hot and heavy atmosphere.

Even though the feeling of having Lexa touch her again filled her with incomparable elation, Clarke knew in that moment that it was all wrong. Not the kiss, not Lexa. Everything else. The location, their intoxication. They had both shared sober intimacy before, but the setting then had been private. They had been alone. In order to continue such an unprofane connection, they needed to be elsewhere. In their own dimension. Not surrounded by other sweaty bodies in a mass alcohol-induced crowd.

Maybe Lexa understood, or maybe Clarke was on her own with her thoughts.

As the kiss naturally deepened, she almost felt arrested by the sensation of how inviting Lexa’s skin was, of how divine her lips felt. It took all of her will-power to bring it all to a pause. She suddenly pulled away, resisting the urge to run her tongue over the taste, “Wait.”

Lexa stopped immediately, her eyes managing to adjust onto Clarke’s again, “Are…” She swallowed, “Are you…?”

“Yes, I just don’t think…” Clarke felt her words drown in her throat. It was hard enough to break away from the kiss but harder still to actually commit herself to what she wanted to say when Lexa watched her so intensely.

“Oh.” Her body froze.

Clarke shook her head, wondering if the rest of their evening together was doomed to be spent in half-finished sentences. It was infuriating. Almost like existing in a nightmare; knowing the words to say but being completely incapable of constructing them. Suddenly, she wondered whether she had the wrong end of the stick all along. It was highly possible that Lexa had just been going along with it because the vibes of the night had led them there. Clarke didn’t even really know whether Lexa was sexually attracted to females or not. She suspected it. But it was unconfirmed. She tried desperately to provide some sort of explanation to the girl pressed against the pillar but all she could manage was, “I think maybe we’re both too drunk.”

“I – right.” Lexa slipped out from Clarke’s hold, “Yeah.”

Clarke reached out to catch her wrist, “No. Don’t go. Please.”

For a moment, she looked as if she might have stayed. She waited with quiet hope buried deep behind her eyes. Clarke thought maybe she could salvage the conversation and say exactly what she meant. Maybe she could’ve taken Lexa out of the club and led her to a place they could talk properly. Realistically, that had to be a conversation for a more sober time. Was there any way of coming back from that?

“It isn’t, I mean, I’m not…”

Why couldn’t she _fucking_ speak? Clarke had rarely struggled for a word in her entire life.

Lexa watched her struggle before eventually taking compassion, “You don’t need to explain. It’s okay.”

But she _wanted_ to explain. She shook her head, “You don’t understand, Lexa.”

“I know. You can talk to me about it when you’re ready to.”

Clarke had visions of the brunette walking away, of leaving her to stand under the pulsing lights alone. She felt the anger bubble beneath her skin. “Lexa, for god’s sake, stop trying to walk away from me.”

She stopped then, something broken falling on her lips in place of the superficial calm, “It’s hard to stay when I can see the regret so plainly on your face, Clarke. I promise this isn’t me walking away from our friendship. I’m not leaving for good. I just need to be alone right now, okay?”

Clarke couldn’t argue with that. She could have tried to get her to stay but she had made a promise never to force Lexa into doing something she didn’t want to. So, she let her hand fall from her slender wrist and dropped a step back. She didn’t take her eyes from her for one moment, not until she had completely disappeared into the crowds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know how much you all want to shout at me. I can feel it already. Please, go ahead though - I'll just hide in my apocalyptic bunker (that I wish I actually had) in the meantime.   
> Tumblr: the-lady-of-cythera


	22. Chapter 21 - Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thank you all for your patience and kind words of support. It has taken me a while to get this chapter how I want it and I'm still not entirely sure it's exactly right. Either way, before I hash it up and destroy the whole thing, here it is. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, I haven't had the opportunity to edit it properly, so if you spot any glaring mistakes/errors, please let me know!
> 
> Feel free to shout at me on here or Tumblr: the-lady-of-cythera
> 
> Enjoy  
> xox

Reflection was a tool that could be both empowering and debilitating. It could cause either clarity or confusion. It was a double-edged sword; much like everything else. Nothing was ever simple. Nothing was ever straightforward. Nothing worth experiencing, at least.

Clarke looked at the wooden sculpture in her hand, wondering how she had managed to find her sense of stability ruptured completely within the space of 24 hours. The miniature violin clutched in her fingers was still rough around the edges.

“Shit.” She hissed, dropping the sculpture and pulling back to examine her finger carefully. There was the splinter, sticking out provocatively from her skin. She plucked it out and cast it to one side, knowing her reaction wasn’t because of the familiar discomfort of such a minor wound. She stood up and went to look out of the penthouse window, leaving the tiny violin replica on the floor.

It was raining heavily. Could’ve been storm rain.

“Shit.” She muttered again, watching the way the thick clouds swallowed up the twilight.

Then, before the thought had properly crossed her mind, her heart had already picked its pace. Her body always reacted far quicker than her head did; it could have been a blessing and a curse at times, but usually it was just a curse.

Her thumb hovered over Lexa’s name on her phone screen and she pressed it. The dials rang out, going straight to voicemail. She couldn’t bear to listen to her pre-recorded voice and she hung up promptly, sliding her phone back into her pocket. She watched the rain for a little while longer before she decided she wasn’t doing herself any favours by keeping awake. She had exhausted herself all day with thoughts of Lexa and the night before.

Clarke slept long after she’d taken herself off to bed. She spent the first few hours of the night staring blankly at the backs of her eyelids, waiting for her mind to shut down. When, eventually, sleep did befall her, it was restless and broken. She woke in the morning feeling unrested and heavy. She checked the time on her phone, hoping to see some kind of acknowledgement from Lexa alongside it, but was left disappointed. 08:07. She’d missed her alarm. Or, maybe she’d forgotten to set it. Either way, there was no point wasting any more of her morning in bed.

Clarke set the next few hours aside to catch up on the bureaucracy she had been putting off since the meeting. She kept her phone nearby on the off-chance she would receive something from Lexa; anything would have sufficed, really.

Still, the day passed without so much as text. Clarke had managed to keep herself mostly focused on the immediate tasks at hand, but there was still a part of her that had never left the dancefloor. She had watched Lexa walk away from her many times since. By the time she had responded to her emails, checked in with her “colleagues”, contacted her PA to organise her schedule, and got onto marking assignments, it was mid-afternoon. With stomach growling moodily, she pushed away her laptop and looked out onto the city from her window. She hadn’t eaten or even showered that day. Mindlessly, she picked up the small violin she’d left on the floor and sat with it in hand, sanding it down so it didn’t cause any more splinters. It passed the time for an hour and gave Clarke the opportunity to motivate herself to actually take care of her body’s needs.

Without really acknowledging it to herself, Clarke already knew what she was planning on doing that evening. On her way to the Soundhouse, tiny violin in jacket pocket, she glanced at the sun as it hung low above the towering buildings in the distance. She wasn’t sure whether she was making a wise decision, going to visit Lexa in the practice room or not (she suspected probably not), but she’d known the violinist didn’t favour having serious discussions over the phone. Besides, Lexa had said she could visit her in the Soundhouse whenever she pleased.

“Clarke.” Anya pulled open the door at the sound of Clarke’s fist against the wood. She was alone, and halfway through packing up by the looks of things.

“Hi.” She returned, trying not to let the small frown tugging at her lips develop into something visible, “How, uh, how are you?”

Anya said very little at first, both eyebrows raising as she glanced Clarke up and down, “Fine, thanks. You?”

“Yeah, good.”

There was a moment of hesitation on Clarke’s behalf before Anya took pity, “She’s not here.”

“Who?”

The tutor tilted her head to one side, “Who, Clarke? Really? Let’s not pretend you’re here to see me.”

She flushed, biting her lip, “I might be. Don’t sell yourself short.”

For a moment, Anya looked as if she might have smirked but managed somehow to keep her mockery under control, “We had our session early today. Finished about half an hour ago. She’s teaching.”

“Teaching?” Clarke repeated, mildly surprised. It explained why Lexa wasn’t in the room.

“Yeah. Kids. Would you believe it?”

“Not without seeing it, no.”

Anya shrugged, “Alright. 2nd floor, room 23. See for yourself.”

As tempting as the offer was, Clarke felt she had intruded enough on Lexa’s routine enough over the last few months. Had they been on the same ground they were on before Octavia’s night out, she would have considered crashing it, just to watch Lexa’s solid demeanour crack. As it was, they were on different terrains completely.

“Thanks, but I’d better not disturb her. I’ll catch her another time.”

Wisely, the music tutor inclined her head, still studying Clarke with a knowing gaze.

“What, An?”

“I’ve known you a long time, yeah? Don’t forget that.”

“Pretty impossible thing to forget.” She muttered, leaning against the door frame.

Anya just shrugged, turning to finish packing up her things with a sudden cryptic silence.

“What are you getting at?” Clarke prompted, folding her arms expectantly.

After a few moments of the slow paced quiet, she met the blonde’s stare, “You deserve happiness so do what makes you happy.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

The tutor’s lips turned upwards into a shark-like grin, “You’re standing here and wasting time talking to me instead of doing the shit you actually want to do.”

“And what makes you happy then? Don’t think I didn’t see you and Raven.”

She gave a patient smile, her persona altering completely, “Turn it around on me all you like, Clarke. You know my situation and you know where my loyalties lie. Believe me when I say that they don’t lie with a straight girl.”

Taking what she could get, Clarke arched a brow, “Yeah? But did you lie _with_ said straight girl?”

“Cleverly done, Griffin, but that’s not how this works.”

“Well, did you at least have a good night with her?”

“She had a good night with me. Let’s leave it at that.” Anya fastened up her violin case, closing the conversation with ease.

“Cougar.” Clarke just couldn’t help herself.

The placid smile on the musician’s face twitched irritably, “Don’t _you_ start with the age thing.”

“What do you mean? You’re not that old. I mean…seriously, you look great for a 42-year-old.”

“You used up all your free passes with me long ago, Griffin. Get your arse out of here before I beat it.”

“I bet you said something like that to Raven, too.”

Anya moved smoothly towards the door, nudging Clarke out onto the corridor with her knee, “And you can bet that Raven knew what was good for her.”

The artist exercised her better judgement and chose to close her remarks as the two walked together down the corridor. Anya looked at her dubiously when she continued all the way to the exit.

“You’re not sticking around, then?” She asked.

Clarke shook her head, “No. I’ll just drop her a text or something instead.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Don’t, don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You know what.” Clarke muttered, “Act as though I’m making the wrong decision.”

The arrogance slipped from the music tutor’s face for a fraction of a second and she stopped walking so she could look directly at the blonde, “Griffin, look, I don’t know why you look like the entire universe has just collapsed in your hands or something, but I assume it has something to do with Lexa. I don’t know or particularly care what happened between you, if anything, but you’re obviously here for a reason. So, either do what you came here to do or don’t.” She shrugged, “As for me, I’m going to go home and drink straight whiskey.”

“It’s been that sort of day, huh?”

For a moment, Anya looked confused, “What sort of day?”

“Never mind.” Clarke shook her head, “I forgot who I was talking to for a minute. You enjoy. I’ll see you later.”

It wasn’t even annoying anymore how right Anya usually was but there was something in the way Lexa had looked at her that night that stopped her from turning back around and heading back inside. The violinist had asked for time to be alone. Clarke had little choice except to accept that and wait it out.

Of course, two thirds of a bottle of wine later, she found herself plagued with regret. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling but it hurt all the same.

.::.::.::.::.::.

The evening met twilight with fire. The flames of scarlet and amber scorched the cool blue. The silhouettes of the high-rise buildings painted black against the skies, casting dense shadows across the courtyard. Mother nature never hid her feelings. One could not only see the passion set deep in her heart but feel it. She didn’t want to release the light of day at that moment and so dusk loitered in the corners of the sky until she had finished setting the remnants of the day alight. When she finished, she left the canvas of twilight to burn to ashes.

It was the sort of scene an artist would fall in love with.

“ _Hey, it’s Clarke. I tried to call you a couple days ago but I couldn’t get through, so I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay and…_ _look, I know you need space but it’s just, it’s hard. This is hard. Harder than I thought it would be… Hard, I guess, because there’s a lot I wanted to say to you that night that I just couldn’t. I understand if you need more time, or just, just… yeah. Just take all the time you need. Talk later._ ”

She played the message again. And again.

And again.

She couldn’t ignore the way Clarke’s voice broke a little more with each breath she took.

Something in her chest stumbled.

She had listened to the message numerous times since it had arrived in her mailbox the previous night. She continued to listen to it the next morning when leaving her home and she listened to it again when leaving the Soundhouse the following evening. All it took was one look at the scene that surrounded her and she’d known exactly what to do.

“ _You can come in_.”

Lexa took a breath and followed as instructed, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Clarke was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her workshop, crouched over a sheet of canvas on the floor. She was at such an angle where Lexa could only see the back of her. She looked exactly as she always did when in her element and it killed her. Not that she’d ever really spoken it aloud, but seeing Clarke in her baggy top, skinny paint-spattered jeans with blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, was one of the most attractive sights she’d ever seen. That she probably ever would see. Clarke finished up what she was doing, reaching over to take a sip of her tea before she finally placed down her paintbrush and turned to face Lexa. When she met her gaze, nothing changed behind the wall of azure. She simply looked in expectance, waiting for the arrival to speak, hands speckled with dried scarlets and ambers.

“Were you… expecting me?” She asked, cautiously taking a step closer.

Clarke watched her falter for a few seconds before she shrugged, “Eventually.”

Lexa battled with herself for a moment and Clarke sighed, gesturing for her to close the door.

“I also know your knock too, so there’s that.”

“Right.” Lexa had knocked on Clarke’s door enough times for such a sound to be familiar to her, “I should have messaged first but I didn’t know what I would say. Since I was passing by, I hoped maybe we could talk in person.”

“Sure.”

When Lexa observed the coolness to Clarke’s expression, to her posture, she interpreted it as nothing less than venom. Relaxed, invitingly so, but poisonous all the same. Of course, Lexa had left her waiting for three days since, without so much as a text to acknowledge the artist’s attempts to get through to her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought of responding. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. As Clarke had said in her voicemail, it was just hard. Harder than either of them had expected it to be. In fact, neither of them had really expected such a situation to occur in the first place, let alone plan for what would happen afterwards. It was impossible to tell what any of it meant to Clarke due to the opaque slate-blue of her stare.

With so much to say and not enough words to say it all, Lexa simply took two steps forwards, hands clasped behind her back, and started with, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Clarke’s voice was almost separate to her body, the words leaving her mouth in detached disbelief, “Sorry for what?”

Lexa hadn’t arranged that part of her apology yet despite knowing it would be stupid to turn up so unprepared. Truthfully, she had been led here by the sunset. There was little time for preparation. When Clarke stood up, words lodged as far back in her throat as they could get. The artist stood before her with quietened passion flickering behind her eyes, yet did nothing to offer saving grace.

After a measured silence, Lexa opened her lips, “This, Clarke.”

“For this?” She repeated and, for a moment, Lexa wondered if she was angry. The anticipation of waiting to find out was worse than the trigger itself. The warmth that usually ignited the deepest reaches of blue was absent. She had no idea that Lexa could have crumbled beneath her gaze. “You mean, you’re sorry for what happened, or you’re sorry for being here?”

“I’m sorry things happened the way they did and I’m sorry that it took me this long to find you.”

She twitched a hand dismissively, “I meant it when I told you to take the time you needed. I know you well enough now not to be offended by your silence.”

This was a surprising statement, although it ought not to have been.

“I am curious though, why did you find me?” Clarke continued, “What’s changed?”

“I wanted to see you.” Lexa swallowed, “I wanted to talk.”

“About what, though?”

“About, about what happened – or, at least, about how we can move on from it.”

She hadn’t noticed Clarke’s gaze beginning to thaw until it froze over once more, “Alright, how do you plan on doing that then?” She moved her attention away from the violinist for a fraction of a second, “If you want to forget about it and think you can, go right ahead. But you walked away for a reason, Lexa. You wanted to be alone for a reason. You’ve been silent for three days for a _reason_.”

Something plummeted deep in Lexa’s stomach and she closed her eyes briefly, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She clasped her hands tighter behind her back to prevent the reaction, “I thought maybe you would need some space too. I thought–”

“–You thought I needed space too?” She laughed aloud, “I mean, thanks for the chivalry, Woods, but I didn’t _ask_ for space. Actually, I asked you not to go.”

“I know.” Lexa felt her chest cave as she thought back to that night, back to the crippling fear she felt when Clarke pulled away, “I know.” She said again.

“But I’m not mad at you for walking away or for waiting a few days. I get it. I’d be a dick for holding that against you.”

“Then why are you mad, Clarke?”

“Because I hate that I can’t seem to articulate myself around you.”

She paused, eyebrows creasing faintly, “You’re mad at me for that?”

At this, the artist displayed the first real emotion she was experiencing that evening, eyes wide with shock, “What? Mad at you? I’m not, I’m not mad at _you_ , Lexa. I’m angry at me. That, and I’m just, I don’t know…”

“Hurting.” Lexa said quietly, realising that the venom she detected in Clarke before was self-directed and yet, that seemed to make her all the more dangerous.

Clarke didn’t deny it. She had no grounds to do so. The violinist had seen her fall apart before. She shrugged, still trying to keep herself together, “Well, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but not for the reasons you think.”

At this, the blonde reacted quickly, “Is that right, huh? What are those reasons, then? What am I thinking, as according to the expert?”

Ordinarily, such remarks would have been intended with amusement coming from Clarke, but the humour seemed to lose its way in transit.

Lexa took a steadying breath, wondering whether Clarke knew exactly how much power she held over her or not. It was frightening to think about. She braved the question anyway and let her eyes slide back to blue, knowing that she was about to tear herself wide open, knowing she would be at Clarke’s mercy, “Do you think I’m hurting because of your regret? Because of the way you looked at me as though touching me like that was a mistake?”

“My, my regret? No, that’s not what I think.” Clarke’s eyebrow twitched.

“As I thought.”

She caught herself and thought about it before she spoke again, “What?”

Lexa said nothing, trying to ignore how tight the space felt between them even as they stood metres apart.

“You thought I regretted being like that with you? That’s why you walked away? That’s why you didn’t speak to me?” She looked completely disarmed, proverbial sword and shield pointing to the floor in loose hands.

“Yes.”

“Lexa, please,” her voice had quietened upon deeper reflection of her words, the fury dissipating completely, leaving her suddenly exposed, “I need to know. Does that mean... did you mean it, um…” she took a steadying breath but seemed shakier than before, “…when you kissed me back, did you mean it?”

She hadn’t expected the question and her jaw slackened as she heard the words leave Clarke’s lips, “I – yes. Yes, I meant it.”

“Fuck.” Clarke ran a hand through her hair, the gravity of Lexa’s perspective on the situation evidently dragging her back to reality. It was hard to look at her all over again, reliving the same sensation as that night. Clarke’s voice shook, “Fuck.”

Lexa had to force herself to meet Clarke’s gaze; it was the least she could do. It was out in the open and Clarke was still unreadable. Part of her wanted to say they could ignore it. They could go back to being friends. They weren’t so far gone that they couldn’t do that. It had been one night of intoxication and they’d barely kissed for longer than half a minute. Yet, she could say none of it. She could say none of it because, as she met her stare once again, she was trapped by the sapphire embers of Clarke’s eyes. It was scorching and unbearable. She just couldn’t look away. She didn’t really want to. She didn’t want to because it was the same look Clarke had given her right before they’d kissed. Maybe she had misjudged, after all.

“Did, did _you_?”

The artist took a step closer, “Did I what?”

“Mean it.”

“Lexa, the regret you saw was nothing to do with you. It was about the place. The situation. When I told you that it wasn’t the right time, that we were too drunk, it wasn’t because I didn’t mean to kiss you. It’s that I wished I’d done it under different circumstances.”

Lexa felt herself drop backwards an inch as Clarke moved ever closer, “What, what circumstances?” Her voice had almost completely disappeared, gaze flickering between Clarke’s mouth and her eyes.

“A circumstance where we are sober. One where we can acknowledge that it’s something that we both want. One where we aren’t influenced by what’s happening around us.” She was close. So close. “One where we’re alone…”

She could feel her stomach clench and she automatically shuffled back a step, her lower back hitting the edge of Clarke’s workbench. She emitted a quiet “oh” the moment she made contact, the moment she realised she couldn’t take any more steps backwards. The moment she was trapped between a solid surface and the terrifyingly beautiful creature standing before her. It wasn’t that she wanted to move away from Clarke. The latter just had the sort of energy that compelled movement in her and if she didn’t release it somehow, she would unleash it in a way she wouldn’t be able to take back. Clarke hesitated, maybe a pace away from her, biting her lip habitually.

“We really need to talk about this, don’t we?” She said, quietly.

Lexa tried to swallow. She wasn’t sure she completely agreed. Not in that moment. But she couldn’t speak, so it didn’t matter anyway.

“I do want to,” Clarke continued, deeply conflicted, “talk about it, I mean, but all I’ve been thinking about is that night… about how it felt when you touched me like that and then how it felt when we weren’t touching anymore. It’s been really hard to think of anything else.”

“When I touched you, how did it feel, Clarke?” Lexa asked, her voice almost inaudible.

“You were there. You felt it too. Tell me you didn’t.” She tried to wet her lips, but the moisture evaporated almost as soon as she did. They were practically toe to toe. “Don’t you feel it now?” Clarke asked, sounding as if she had swallowed gravel.

Lexa knew she had to be pushing her, testing her, even. Surely the artist could see the hammering of her heart against her sternum, begging to be tended to, to be noticed. Clarke didn’t even need to touch her to make her feel it. With an impassioned stare, the artist extended a hand and covered the beating in Lexa’s chest with her palm, quelling the craving temporarily.

“That’s what I thought.” She whispered, counting the speed of her pulse in her head.

“Clarke, maybe we should…” But Lexa could not finish what she intended on saying so she quietened herself, recognising that full sentences would mean next to nothing anymore. Not right then, at least.

Clarke’s hand slid across her chest and upwards, curling around her neck, “Do you want to feel it again, Lexa?” She caressed the words with equalling passion but a passion that came from a place of solemnity. Still, she was wanting and desperate, but she was no longer teasing. She was alert and focused, ready to respond to whatever consenting cue Lexa would give her. It was sincerity in its purest form.

All it took was a forward tilt of her head. A soft “please”.

Clarke nodded in acceptance, taking that last small step to stand either side of Lexa’s feet. She moved her thumb to press to the underside of Lexa’s jaw and she let the corners of her mouth pull up into a gently reassuring smile. She leaned most of the way forwards but let Lexa meet her partway. She wanted to make sure this was exactly what they both wanted and it was. It was.

It had been as Clarke had said. She was exactly right. This was how it was supposed to be. They were enclosed by comfort and familiarity, not strangers and booze. They had spent hours together in the workshop. Lexa adored being surrounded by the artwork, by the familiar scents, by everything that was Clarke. It was overwhelming; intoxicating. She could feel her muscles tremble. She could barely contain it. Clarke tended to her lips with such surety, such selflessness, pressing their bodies together as though that was why they were designed. Lexa returned the kiss willingly, hands falling to Clarke’s waist. She pulled her hips into her own, fingers sliding to rest on the lowest point of her back. She could feel the vibration of Clarke’s mouth as she hummed into the kiss. Although it began as something innocent, the kiss was deepening, and so were their desires. There was nothing to harness them. The connection had been suppressed for so long – too long. Now, finally, it came to the surface, exposed and raw.

The kiss did not naturally taper away. It could have continued for far longer than the few minutes it had endured. Lexa’s skin was hot and Clarke was supple beneath her touch. The urge to feel her every curve almost overpowered her completely. She knew that if she didn’t stop there though, she doubted she would be able to stop at all. They still had a great deal that needed to be addressed. Although, it was hard for Lexa to address anything other than the way Clarke’s hand gripped her hair, the way her teeth fastened lightly around Lexa’s lower lip, and the way she sucked with minimal force. It was an introduction to so much possibility.

The violinist gasped and pulled away, cheeks stained and body starved of oxygen. Clarke, whom she thought initially had it all under control, appeared to have lost it all during their kiss. Her eyes were dark and desiring. All either of them could do in that moment was regain their breath, locked together in an unbreakable moment of explicit appeal.

Clarke panted quietly, her chest heaving against Lexa’s, “Okay. Maybe, maybe we should talk now.”

“Okay, Clarke.” Although she wanted nothing more than to pick up where they left off, taste the sweetness of Clarke’s lips once more, she knew she was right. The blonde took a step back, apparently still lagging behind the reality of what had just happened between them. She must have seen the look in Lexa’s eyes though because she closed the distance once more and landed a light kiss on her lips. She almost melted against her body again and then managed to catch herself.

“No, I mean it now.” She pulled away again, trying to formulate something sensical, “God. You’re… I didn’t know you… that you…”

Lexa somehow calmly waited for Clarke to either complete the sentence or fully commit to giving up on it. She seemed to have decided on the latter and glanced away, cheeks warming. The brunette arched an eyebrow, “What didn’t you know?”

“So, you’re… are, are you gay?”

She offered the smallest hint of amusement with a twitch of her lips, “Am I – yes, Clarke.”

“Right.” She seemed as relieved as she was stressed all at the same time, “Jesus, fuck.”

“Is that a problem?” Lexa asked, letting it be known that her quiet arrogance meant she knew full well it wasn’t a problem right then. Not in the slightest.

She flashed her a look, “No.” She breathed, “Not at all and you know it. It’s just, I suppose, I never really expected that… I don’t know. I didn’t think that you’d think of me like that. I didn’t expect you to. You’ve always been such a mystery to me and I never thought that I’d find out, I guess.”

Incredulity painted itself on Lexa’s features, “Wait, you thought _I_ was the mystery?”

Clarke’s eyes widened, “Well, yeah, I’m pretty much an open book.”

“Sure, if the book was written upside-down in Latin.”

“I feel like you’re smart enough to know Latin.”

Lexa released a breath of laughter.

“I think maybe I should put the kettle on.” Clarke said faintly, taking a few large steps back before she made her way to the tea trolley.

Lexa simply watched her, still leaning back against the workbench, still dizzy from the kiss. Neither said anything until Clarke had finished making the tea, “Come on, let’s sit down.” She gestured for the brunette to come and sit on the sofa. She did so, quietly. For a moment, the two just sat as they usually did, Clarke’s feet tucked under Lexa’s thigh, her back pressed against the arm rest. Clarke was the first to finally speak, “Okay, so, I think before we start overanalysing everything, maybe I should let you know how bad I’m likely to be at, at this.”

“At what?”

“Yes. Just everything. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Lexa nodded, taking a sip of her tea, “Me either.”

“Oh, god. You’re not supposed to be bad at this, too. At least one of us needs to be articulate.” Clarke laughed, but her voice was unsteady.

“That’s you, Clarke.”

“How do you figure that one out?”

Lexa’s mouth twitched slightly, “You dealt with a bunch of misogynistic males the other day. You must have been pretty articulate for that.”

“Yes, but I hadn’t just kissed any of them.” She returned, quietly.

“No.” Her voice was soft, “I don’t suppose you had.”

It took a few more seconds of pensive silence before Clarke spoke again, “So, okay, I’m going to say something in complete honesty. I don’t entirely know what’s going to come out of my mouth so if it doesn’t make sense, let me know.”

Lexa nodded, her eyes fixing intently on hers.

“Look, I know we’ve spoken about this connection before. I don’t know what it is exactly or why I feel it the way I do. All I know is that I have felt something for you since the moment we met. At first, it was frustration, bitterness, anger, and even hatred at times. Gradually, it changed into something good. It didn’t matter what I felt for you, I’ve always felt it strongly. That intensity is constant. It scares me because I know that intensity can be toxic. I get that. Because of that, I don’t want to ruin whatever good stuff we already have going on. I guess, I guess I’m afraid, really.”

Lexa inclined her head carefully, waiting for Clarke to continue. The blonde reflected on what she’d said before nodding slowly, giving permission for her to speak in reply. “What scares you the most?”

Clarke exhaled quietly, tilting her head back against the armrest, “I don’t know. A lot of things, really. I think the first thing that scares me is losing you. Before I really interpreted what any of this meant, I knew I cared about you. Be it as an ally, a friend, whatever. I’m worried I will lose that if I make the wrong choice.”

“What would the wrong choice be?”

She shrugged, “I’m sure there are plenty of wrong choices I could make. What do you think the wrong choice would be?”

Lexa pondered this for maybe a second or two at the most before she answered, “I think there are two wrong choices. The first is you choosing not to do something that you want to do. The second is you choosing to do something that you _don’t_ want to do.”

Clarke nodded, slowly, “What about you? What is it that you want, or don’t want, to do?”

Her eyes slid gently across the soft features of the artist’s face before they met her gaze, “What I know in this moment, Clarke, is that I like how it feels when you kiss me.”

“Yeah?” She raised an eyebrow, a small smirk on her lips, “How much do you like it?”

Perhaps Clarke expected the brunette to blush, or to look away. She didn’t appear to expect the way Lexa’s hand moved to cover her foot as it pressed against her thigh, eyes flickering to the shape of her mouth. She didn’t appear to expect the way Lexa bit her lip or the way she released it, “Enough to want to do it again.”

“Oh.”

“I think the same could be said for you too.”

She nodded, her jaw slack, eyelids half-closed, “Yeah. It could.”

Lexa gave a small, half-smile, “I thought so.” The heavy want slid from her face back into the shadows, sincerity hesitantly taking its place with a creased brow, “Clarke,” she took a quiet breath, “I think we share an attraction. A strong one. It’s something that I would really like to explore with you.”

“I would like that, too.” Clarke murmured, glancing down at her foot as it nestled itself beneath Lexa’s thigh, “I am nervous about it though, Lexa. I…” She shook her head, trailing away.

When it became apparent that she was unable to complete her sentence, the violinist spoke with a serenity to her tone, “It’s okay.”

Still, she struggled.

Lexa was quiet for a moment as she read the familiar pain flashing behind Clarke’s eyes. On interpretation, she asked softly, “Is it about Callie?”

Clarke nodded. Eventually, she was able to open her mouth to speak after a silence passed between them, “I’m scared of what will happen if I do explore this with you, Lexa. I’m scared that I will feel happy and then I’ll feel guilty because Callie is still gone. She died and I lived. She didn’t get to experience the happiness that I could.”

Lexa initially considered trying to offer Clarke something like advice, or something that could bring comfort. Knowing that she had barely scratched the surface with it all, she realised to say such words was not her place. Instead, she kept her hand covering Clarke’s foot and used her other hand to point to the huge image that had recently been painted over the bricks, “I noticed that when I first came in. It’s beautiful.”

Clarke turned her head to look at the painting she’d created of her father and Callie, “It was my mom who gave me the idea. She suggested that my dad was looking after her. Honestly, I don’t know whether I believe in the afterlife or not, but I would like to think if it did exist, that’s where they would be.”

“I think you’d be right.”

“Why? Do you believe in it all?” 

Lexa scanned the detail of the image carefully, “Well, I’m not religious myself, really. Alie is atheist. My mother didn’t believe in god as such, but she believed in an afterlife. She said there would be a city of light somewhere and that, when she goes, she would wait there for me. I don’t know if she’s right or not. There’s no way of knowing until it happens to us, I guess, but for me, I do believe that there is life after death. She always encouraged me to develop my own beliefs and when she passed, I developed the belief that people stay with you when they’re gone. I get the feeling that sometimes our worlds overlap. I sometimes used to wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I could hear her playing the violin in the attic. Of course, she was never there and I’ll never know if that was just a product of my wild imagination but it used to bring me comfort, anyway.”

Clarke was quiet as she absorbed this, nodding gently as she listened.

“There’s nothing I can say to ease the ache of grief. As I’ve said before, it will stay with you because you love so deeply. I just think that dealing with the grief and with loss is hard enough without making yourself deal with guilt too. It took me a long time to deal with the guilt of my mother passing. The fact she chose my life over hers. That’s hard. I know that you would have done the same in a heartbeat for Callie, given the choice. One of the hardest things to deal with is actually still being alive when the person we loved the most is taken away from us. The thing that made it a little easier for me is the belief that I would get to see my mom again. That I would get to tell her all about the things I accomplished, the people I met. She would be able to tell me everything she’s learned in her own world. She could tell me all the things she’s seen. We would have a lifetime of things to talk about. My honest belief is that Callie is with your dad somewhere, maybe in their own city of light. The image you’ve created? That, to me, looks like happiness for both of them.”

Clarke took a shaky breath, “You really think so?”

“Yes.” Lexa inclined her head, “I do.”

“I never really expected you to have beliefs like that.” She murmured, thoughtfully.

“Why not? Because I’m too cynical?” She let the humour seep into her tones.

“Probably.” Clarke’s lips turned upwards into a sheepish smile.

Lexa angled her body to face hers, “Clarke, I believe you deserve happiness. In fact, I can barely think of a person more deserving of happiness. I want you to know that I would never ask you to give me anything more than you could. If you feel something, all I ask is that you let yourself feel it, whether it’s good or bad. We really don’t have to decide what this is right now. We don’t have to put any pressure on ourselves. I think this is something we need to take slowly.”

She nodded, slowly, “You’re right. What about you, though? We’ve spoken about my fears but you have them too, right?”

“Yes.” She returned without hesitation, “For a long time, my mantra has always been that love is weakness. I know how nihilistic that sounds. I’m aware it’s one of those negative statements that makes people roll their eyes. It’s just the only way I’ve been able to get through things on my own for so long.”

“Well, sometimes maybe love _is_ weakness.” Clarke shrugged.

“You think so?” Lexa seemed surprised at her response.

“Yeah but, you know, even though it’s frightening to be vulnerable, to allow somebody to see that is strength in its most powerful form.”

Lexa fell silent.

“You taught me that.” Clarke murmured, “Remember?”

She inclined her head. She remembered that night very well.

“You put aside everything and you held me until I was ready to hold myself again. If we were strong all the time, it would be exhausting.”

She was right, Lexa knew.

“Can I ask how long you’ve known?” Clarke murmured.

“About, about feeling like this for you?”

“Yeah.”  
She took a slow breath, casting her mind back to the moments where she would look at the artist and realise the reasons why her heart would suddenly start racing, “Honestly, for a long time, Clarke. One of the moments when it became a clear possibility that I could feel differently about you was when you sketched me for the very first time. Nobody has ever seen me the way you do and it felt good to be uniquely visible to somebody like that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me sooner?” Clarke asked, although she probably already knew why.

“I couldn’t afford to admit such a feeling aloud even to myself, never mind to you. It did get harder for me, I suppose. The more time I spent with you, the more I felt for you. I also didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you would be ready to hear it. I didn’t want to risk losing what we already had with each other.”

Something of a realisation flickered across her features, “That time you came over and we watched the storm together…”

Lexa was interested to learn that Clarke associated that night with the storm, rather than with Lexa offering up her apologies for hurting her (not for the first, or the last, time). Or even associating it with Wells’ drunken debut.

“… you said there was another part to our connection and you wouldn’t tell me what you thought it was.”

The violinist was quiet. Clarke could figure out the answer to that herself. It didn’t take her long to do so, either.

“This was what you meant.” She finished, “You know, I hoped.”

She raised an eyebrow playfully, “You hoped that I’d have high school girl feelings for you?”

“Why, do you?” Clarke’s gaze snapped to Lexa’s, a smirk quickly forming on her lips.

“Tell me when you realised.” Lexa changed the subject, curiosity overriding her interest in humour.

“Well, it was a gradual thing for me. I’d kind of expected that I’d never have feelings for anybody ever again after Finn. Of course, not because I was so in love with him that I didn’t feel I could ever love again. As you know, it’s because I couldn’t understand how somebody who professed to love me could do what he did.” She shrugged, “You changed the game for me in a lot of ways. You sort of made me realise it was possible to want somebody in that way again.” Her cheeks were hot as she spoke the words, glancing away from Lexa, “That I wasn’t as broken as I thought I was. It crept up on me so slowly but so powerfully. It was hard because I had no idea how I could possibly broach it with you. You’re right, though. I know this is something we will have to take slowly because it’s been so long for me since I’ve been this close to someone before. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Lexa’s eyes fixated suddenly onto Clarke’s, “It’s been a while for me too, Clarke. It’s okay that we don’t entirely know what this means or even what we want from it right now. All I ask is that we are honest with each other. I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I know. You’re right.” There was a moment of quiet before Clarke glanced back up to Lexa once more, “Is there, is there anything else that you wanted to talk about?”

There was plenty more that could be said and to think on such things reasonably was proving increasingly difficult. The fresh memory of how their bodies had felt when pressed together had crept to the forefront of Lexa’s mind. She shook her head gently. Not right then.

“Okay.” Clarke bit her lip, the colour slowly rising to her cheeks. The brunette wondered vaguely if it was because she was remembering the feeling too. She hadn’t considered that the blush on Clarke’s face was down to the way Lexa was looking at her, but it was. Lexa couldn’t see the entrancing green in her own eyes. She couldn’t see how they had darkened just by thinking of the taste of the artist’s lips. But Clarke could. She could see it all. “Then, can I be honest with you now?”

She nodded.

Clarke gave a soft smile and it was easily the most endearing sights Lexa had seen in days. The silence was thick; a reminder that there were other forms of communication. They didn’t have to use words. She had said nothing but the clarity in her gaze was all the honesty she needed.

Lexa’s breath stuttered. The tension settled between them again.

They had discussed taking it slowly. How slow was slow?

Clarke placed her remaining cup of tea on the floor, glancing down at the mug in Lexa’s lap as indication for her to do the same thing. Obediently, she did as was expected of her. Clarke was calm and steady. She knew exactly what she wanted. She extended a hand forwards and Lexa took it without question. Easily, Clarke guided her close, lowering her own legs to the floor so they were side by side. The only give away was Clarke’s breathing; her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath she took. Lexa waited a moment, letting her eyes run over the familiar features. The warmth that met her gaze left her heart hammering.

This time, when they kissed, it was slow. They had found common ground and established mutual understanding. The desire was still there, still surging through Lexa’s blood like a current, but it was contained. Clarke’s hand moved to rest on the side of Lexa’s neck, thumb pressed lightly to the crook of her jaw. Her mouth was soft, comforting. Automatically, she felt her hand slide to rest on Clarke’s thigh, curling around the muscle lightly. The blonde’s momentum faltered at the contact, breath staggering. Lexa gave her a few seconds to adjust before she received Clarke’s lips once more.

Truthfully, she could have stayed like that for hours.

To touch Clarke was to touch the sunset itself.


	23. Chapter 22 - Vimto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Okay, firstly, I'm so sorry it's taken so long for us to get here. I've come across several challenges recently that have made it very difficult to actually get this chapter completed. I know some of you will be aware from my update on Tumblr that work for me has been particularly hectic recently. It hasn't helped that I've had internet issues too. This chapter isn't the longest one, but I hope it will satiate you all for the time being. There may well be errors as I am terrible for finding the time to edit once I've finished the chapter.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for being so wonderful and understanding. You're all fabulous and I promise I'll aim to get back to you in one form or another, so don't hesitate to leave a comment or drop me a question on Tumblr: the-lady-of-cythera.
> 
> I do have the draft completed of my next chapter already, so it shouldn't be too long before I can get that polished up and released. 
> 
> Thanks again.
> 
> Enjoy  
> xox

“Didn’t I tell you that you’d one day end up controlling an unruly bunch of over-talented kids?”

Lexa hadn’t expected the gentle husk of Clarke’s voice when she stepped out of the classroom, and she certainly hadn’t expected the disarming smile on her lips as she leaned against the wall opposite either. She blinked once, allowing the question to pass over her eyes and then dissipate as quickly as it emerged.

Clarke watched as a couple more children filtered out, mumbling speedy farewells as they left, before she shrugged, “Anya mentioned a while back that you’d started teaching.”

“Did she also mention that this is supposed to be her class?”

Clarke arched an eyebrow, “No, she didn’t mention that little detail. So, you’re covering for her then?”

Lexa inclined her head, “Permanently, it would seem. And you? You just happened to take a wild guess as to when and where I would be teaching, did you?”

“Although that is certainly not beyond my capabilities, I just followed the sound of internal screaming.”

Lexa allowed brief amusement to flicker behind the smooth façade as she replied, “To tell you the truth, Clarke, I’m not sure I managed to keep the screaming completely internal.” She fell quiet as the final straggler dragged his feet through the doorway, violin case in hand.

Clarke’s eyes focused on the brunette, seeming to pick up on the subtle change in her demeanour. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional, but Lexa’s countenance softened with subtlety.

“Good work today, Aden. You’re improving.”

The young boy couldn’t have been older than 11. There was a childlike sadness about him that he tried desperately to conceal with the set of his jaw. At the violinist’s words, he hesitated. Lexa didn’t rush him, but kept her attention fixed on him, allowing him to take the time he needed. Clarke seemed to disconnect as a result, dropping back a step to give the kid a little room to breathe. Her face had long since released its anonymity and her presence wasn’t exactly unnoticeable as a result. Even so, Aden seemed to change his mind about loitering and shook his head, starting forwards once more.

“Aden.”

It was no surprise that he stopped walking immediately. The timbres of Lexa’s voice carried with them such a gentle control that it would seem impossible to oppose whatever command she uttered.

“I’ve told you before never to leave my classroom troubled. What is it?”

He bit his lip, figuring out how to put his words together, “I, I did it again today.”

Lexa waited.

“I’m fine when I play on my own. I can do it. But I keep doing things wrong in class.” He sighed, turning around to face the musician, “Everyone else is ahead of me. If I don’t get better, what if I have to stop lessons?”

“Have you thought about having one-on-one sessions instead?”

For a moment, he looked embarrassed, diverting his gaze to the floor, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The only reason my uncle is paying for my lessons is so that my cousin doesn’t have to go to class on his own. James doesn’t even like violin. He only agreed to go to lessons if I was there. My mum can’t afford to pay. I don’t think she’d really want to, anyway.” His cheeks reddened, “I, I’m sorry.”

Lexa was quick in her response, “Why are you sorry?”

He shrugged, “Because I shouldn’t be here, really. I don’t fit in with the others.”

“Firstly, Aden, I don’t ever want to hear you apologise again unless you’ve done something wrong. Secondly, I want you to hear me, and I mean _really_ hear me, when I tell you that this is exactly the place you should be.”

He was quiet, attentively so. Lexa knew she had his complete attention and she held it with such confidence, such surety, that Clarke could see the doubt slip from Aden’s stare.

“Now, how possible do you think it would be for you to arrive here an hour before group class?” She asked.

Aden paused, thinking carefully before answering, “I don’t know. I could ask my mum. Why?”

“Because I want to tutor you.”

“But I don’t have–”

“–You don’t need money.”

“How will I pay for it, then?”

Lexa shook her head, the sincerity burning beneath her words, “You won’t. I see a very special talent in you, Aden, and I would be doing the world a disservice if I didn’t help you achieve your potential.”

“But what about…?” He subtly nodded his head in Clarke’s direction.

“Do you want to know something? I didn’t have the money to be here either but Jake Griffin saw something in me that he wanted to share with the world, too.”

Without pretence this time, Aden turned to stare at the figure who now stood in the place of her father, waiting for her to contest the statement.

Clarke caught his eye and offered a small smile, shrugging, “She’s right. Best decision he ever made as well.”

Lexa’s gaze passed over Clarke’s, only briefly, but when they connected, it left the violinist’s skin burning. She concealed it with ease, returning her attention to the young boy, “Find out from your mother and let me know. I’ll be here an hour before session starts next week, so I’ll hope to see you then.”

Aden straightened his spine, a shy smile crossing his lips. He bowed his head forwards respectfully, “Thanks, Miss,” he murmured before dashing off with his violin in tow.

Lexa waited until he had vanished from sight before she pulled the classroom door shut behind her, eventually turning to meet the sky in Clarke’s stare, “How are you?”

“I’ll be better when you offer _me_ one-on-one sessions.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Clarke.” But Lexa couldn’t smother her amusement and nor did she seem to make particular efforts to do so.

The blonde laughed softly, pushing away from the wall and resting one hand in her pocket, “Your mind went there, not mine.”

“You’ve never been a good liar.” The violinist returned, picking up the instrument case by her feet, “So, I assume you’ll eventually tell me why you decided to lurk in wait for me.”

“Yes, actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about and, judging by what I’ve just witnessed, I know I’m making the right decision in asking for your help.” She tucked her thumb through the belt loop of her jeans, as if to stop herself from fidgeting, “So, I might’ve mentioned to you before that I’m in the process of setting up a charity in my father’s name to raise money, you know, to set up places around the country for less-privileged musicians. I’m going to have to do a fundraiser for it which is exactly the sort of thing an introvert like me is terrified of doing.”

“And you want my help because I’m _such_ an extrovert?”

Clarke released a soft breath of laughter, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get you to do speeches or anything. I’m toying with the idea of a masquerade ball. Rich people love that sort of thing. I’m thinking of having a few of my father’s favoured musicians performing there and, well, I wanted to know if you would be one of those favoured musicians.”

“Would I have to wear a mask whilst performing?”

Her lower lip drew itself involuntarily between her teeth, “It’s definitely a visual I could adapt to.”

With one eyebrow arched, Lexa tilted her head to one side, “Is that so?”

“Oh, don’t act like you have no idea how good you’ll look in a mask.”

This seemed to amuse the musician further and one corner of her mouth twitched, “I’m trying to decide whether I should be offended that you’re so enthused to see me with my face covered up.”

“We both know what a nerd I am. Costumes are destined to excite me.”

“Yeah? How excited are you?”

Clarke smirked slightly, her body leaning slightly closer to the brunette’s, just enough to make her notice, “I guess you’ll find out on the night.”

Lexa didn’t verbally acknowledge the undertone to her words but something passed across her features, eyes flickering to the artist’s lips as they curved upwards. After enough seconds filtered by, she inclined her head forwards, falling solemn once more, “It would be an honour to perform there, Clarke. I mean that.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause as the two of them lingered in wait, suddenly unsure how to proceed. Perhaps it was the heaviness that blanketed itself over them; the blatant ache to remain in the other’s company for just a little longer.

“Did you have plans for this evening?” Clarke asked, flashing a quietly humoured smile, “Asking for a friend.”

Lexa responded with a soft breath of amusement, “Nothing spectacular. Who’s your friend? Is she single?”

The artist gave a nonchalant shrug, “Come over to mine and ask her yourself.”

It took little more than the way Clarke held her eyes on making such a request to persuade Lexa to accept.

“Sure, you know I never turn down opportunities to make new friends.” She replied, concealing her sarcasm remarkably well.

“I know, that’s why we hit it off so well the first time we met.” The blonde returned with ease, starting to make her way down the corridor. Lexa followed closely, displaying her humour with the hint of a smirk at one corner of her lips. It was subtle, but Clarke caught it all the same.

On arrival back to the artist’s penthouse, Lexa’s coat was swiftly taken from her and hung up whilst she placed down her violin case and bag, stepping out of her boots.

“Tea or coffee?” Clarke asked, leading the way into the living room, “Something stronger?”

“A tea would be lovely, thank you.”

It took very little time for the host to return with said hot beverages and she placed them down on the coffee table, automatically seating herself on the sofa, waiting for Lexa to do the same so she could habitually slip her toes beneath her thigh. The brunette’s hand drifted to rest over one foot as she occupied her other hand with the tea, “So, a masquerade ball, huh?”

“Yeah,” Clarke waited for her mug to cool for a moment before she picked it up and settled back into the armrest, “I had an idea. It might be a bit egotistical of me but I was thinking of releasing some special edition masks for the occasion. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“You mean like an auction?”

“Well, I’m not sure anybody would be interested enough to spend excessive money on a mask but it’s a thought.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow, “Clarke, have you _met_ rich people?”

She hesitated.

“You are an established artist, not only in the UK, but across Europe. You could auction your masks for a lot of money. People would pay.”

“They might but I’m worried that not everybody will support the cause.”

“They won’t.” Lexa returned, easily, “You’ve seen it yourself with the board but that doesn’t matter. You don’t need everybody to approve. You just need _enough_ to approve. Your father was well respected and you are well on your way to developing that level of respect from people, too.”

“Maybe so, but is it enough?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Clarke, but I can tell you one thing. When you spoke at the Proms, people listened. They _listened_. Whether you recognise it or not, you are a powerful speaker.”

She ruminated on this for a couple of minutes, sipping distractedly at her tea. Lexa waited for her to break the silence, her thumb running lightly over the small bones in Clarke’s foot.

“If you kill me first, the masks will sell for more, right?”

It was clear the violinist hadn’t expected such a comment and she laughed, softly, “Probably, but then I’d be in jail for the ball and therefore unable to perform.”

“Perhaps I’ll stick to being alive then.”

“Could be for the best.” Lexa shrugged, “Why a masquerade, anyway?”

“Partly because it’s the sort of classy event rich people will go for but mostly because I like masks. I like anonymity. I always have. It then isn’t about who you are, it’s about talent. I get people will know who I am when I stand up in my own mask but I’ve sacrificed my right to anonymity and, you know, I’m okay with that. I’m okay with it because, in me doing so, I am giving those people who don’t have a choice except to be anonymous, the opportunity to make themselves seen.” Clarke paused for a moment, “You know, I think I’ve just composed my opening speech.” She laughed, shrugging, “And the other reason is because I like creating masks.”

Lexa inclined her head, thoughtfully, “I think everything you touch becomes art.”

“Not you. You were art long before I got my hands on you.” She revealed a gentle smirk, but it got under Lexa’s skin enough to make her pupils dilate. She was silent, evidently lost somewhere in the depths of Clarke’s words. She turned her head, catching azure with her stare. This time, Clarke was quietened at the heaviness set deep behind the piercing gaze, and her surety wavered. The uncertainty stretched for a moment too long. The artist looked for a moment as if she might say something but she was compelled to silence when Lexa slid one hand halfway up her shin, drawing her closer.

Responsively, the blonde inched further down the sofa until she was close enough to her to smell the familiar fragrance of Lexa’s neck. She wanted to lose herself in it completely. There was very little keeping the two of them apart aside from the hushed anticipation. The nerves bundled themselves tightly in Clarke’s stomach. The look in Lexa’s eyes had the power to enrage the elements. Yet, the tension dissipated the second her hand fell to her cheek, thumb running along the edge of her windpipe. Despite the ferocity of her stare, her touch carried such gentle control that it alone could calm the same winds and tides it had disturbed moments before.

There was a natural hesitancy, even when their lips connected. Despite the fluid chemistry between them, there was still a lot to learn about the other and the prospect of discovering the unknown was as exciting as it was daunting. Time had rarely permitted intimacy for both young women but, even if the opportunity for intimacy had been granted more frequently, it was something they both had feared. Experiencing that fear and knowing that the other felt it too provided something a little deeper than superficial attraction; they recognised the other’s reservations. They understood the need for caution but that did not, by any means, restrict the magnetic instinct to touch the other or to taste the want in each other’s mouth.

Lexa’s hand found her thigh. She squeezed, gently. It was enough to make Clarke gasp. The heat crept over olive-skin at the sound, and she squeezed once more. This time slower, harder, with more intent. Clarke would’ve bitten her own lip in response if she could, but when she clamped down, her teeth closed around Lexa’s lower lip instead. Judging by the way the brunette suddenly pulled her closer, fingers pushing into the skin over her pelvis, she liked how the small shock of pain felt. So, the artist bit a little harder.

“ _Clarke_.” It was a warning, the sort that seized her body with chills.

They separated for a moment, the blonde pulling back to absorb the veiled hunger behind Lexa’s pale green stare, heart hammering in her chest.

“You liked that.”

The simplicity of the remark did something to Lexa. It was evident by the way she took a reactive breath inwards, eyes closing momentarily, “Yes. I did.”

“What else do you like?”

Her green eyes opened, darker than before, provoking a thrill to pass over Clarke’s spine. There was something in the way her demeanour could switch; something that intrigued the artist but almost frightened her. It was easy to recall the darkness Clarke had witnessed in Lexa the very first time they met. She’d been spoiled by the brunette’s kindness over the last year, almost forgetting completely that there were still many dimensions yet to be discovered. Dimensions that were as dark as the persona she’d encountered in the bar all those months ago.

Lexa said nothing, but squeezed Clarke’s hips deliberately, thumbs pushing into the hollow of her bones. It was a reminder of the night they danced together, with lips close but hips closer.

“Noted.”

She closed her remark with a lingering kiss to Lexa’s lips, dropping her head back to against the cushions behind her. There was a moment of silence where the air between them was thick with possibility, with want, and with the consideration of what could have happened had they continued to touch each other in _that_ way.

To distract herself, Clarke let her eyes wander to the work of art beside her. She liked the way olive cheeks had darkened ever so slightly in pallor. She liked how Lexa’s chest rose and fell with controlled deliberation. She liked how the light cut across her collarbones.

“You’re studying me.”

“It’s second nature.” Clarke bit her lip, pondering her next words for a moment before she spoke, “It’s strange, really, how well I should know your body. I know your shape, your stature. I know your expressions, your postures. I have spent hours looking at you. Hours. Yet, I know there is still so much more to learn.”

“And how do you plan on learning it?”

The artist reached forwards, her finger trailing carefully down one side of Lexa’s neck, “Slowly,” she murmured, “Slowly and thoroughly.”

Just like that, the heat had returned, stifling and unbearable. With hot flames licking over their skins, the air became almost impossible to breathe, but it was broken. As soon as it struck, it retreated when Clarke’s phone vibrated loudly against the coffee table.

She kept her eyes fixed on pale green just for a moment, in a mind to ignore the call. She knew it would be her mother and she knew she would have to answer. She’d been expecting the contact but it was hard to adjust to the reality of the moment when she had been so enveloped in Lexa’s touch just seconds before.

“Are you going to get that?”

Clarke nodded, breaking away and answering the call, her voice still thick with want, “Hey, mama. Did you get my email?”

The conversation passed easily, the two discussing plans for the fundraiser and the eventual arrival of the family. By the time she’d ended the call and gone to replenish their empty mugs with more tea, the heat had cooled off enough for Clarke to be able to focus her attention back on Lexa without feeling the need to crumble at the knees.

“So, what are your mom’s thoughts on the fundraiser?”

“She likes the idea of it. Of course, she has more experience in event planning than I do, so she’s been going through the details I sent her and stuff.”

Lexa nodded, “When do you think you’ll be hosting it?”

“Probably aim to do it within the next three months, or something. I’ve got a lot to prepare for. Plus. Mom and Madi will need time to get moved into the London house, so three months is just a target for now. I’m going to discuss it with the board at the end of this week.”

“That should be an exciting experience. How are you feeling about it?”

Clarke gave a shrug, “I mean, I’m used to their misogynism at this point so that doesn’t really bother me anymore. I’m sure there will be some grumbles about it, but really, which one of them is going to say no to an event that will attract some of the biggest names in the industry?”

“You have a head for leadership, Clarke.”

She sighed, “Well, I don’t know about that but I know things can’t keep on the way they’re going.”

“That’s leadership. Seeing that change needs to occur and then putting things in place to enable that change.”

“You give me far too much credit, Lexa.” She said, quietly.

“I’m not sure I give you enough.”

Clarke occupied herself with her mug for a few passing seconds, resuming the seat beside the brunette, “You know, sometimes, I still can’t believe this is where I am. You know, after everything. I just really, really don’t want to mess anything up but I feel like it’s inevitable.”

“You didn’t plan for any of this, Clarke. You’re still learning and you’re still grieving. Mistakes will be inevitable, but you will handle them with grace as you do everything else.”

“Like I said, you give me too much credit.”

Lexa’s hand was gentle and reassuring as it slipped to rest between Clarke’s thighs, but her voice was steady and undisputable, “Don’t bully yourself, Clarke.”

She opened her lips to respond, but caught herself mid-word. She’d told Lexa the same thing a few months back when they were standing in some cocktail bar together, “It’s just, it’s hard.”

“I know it is. Believe me, I know.” Lexa paused, taking a breath, before she angled her body towards Clarke’s, “But you should take your own advice every once in a while. It’s always served me well.”

She leaned into the brunette’s side, feeling the calm befall her. Lexa’s touch had always done something for her and it was always exactly what she needed it to be.

“So, is there anything particular you would like me to play for the fundraiser?”

The artist shrugged, “I didn’t have anything specific in mind. Is there anything you think would fit in well with a masquerade ball?”

Lexa pondered this for a few seconds before she returned her gaze to her, “I can’t say I’ve been to many masquerade balls in my time, but perhaps you’d like to come to the practice room some time to help me pick something?”

“Well, you know I never pass up an opportunity to watch you play.”

“Nor to just watch me in general.”

Clarke’s cheeks coloured somewhat unexpectedly, especially when she zoned in on the faint arrogance behind Lexa’s smile. It took a moment for her wit to return to its rightful place behind her teeth, “Not that I’ve ever seen you complain about it.”

Lexa’s eyebrow quirked upwards, “Nor shall I.”

“So, when would you like me to seize said opportunity?”

“It won’t be until I get back from the tour.”

“Oh?”

The violinist inclined her head slightly, “I’m playing at various venues up North in just over a week. I’ll be away for about a fortnight, but after that we can look at music if you like.”

Clarke nodded, “I’d like that.”

“And, of course, you’re still welcome to the practice room any time you like in the meantime, but I can’t promise to be particularly sociable.”

“I don’t recall you ever promising to be particularly sociable.”

“I’m consistent, at least.” Lexa squeezed her thigh, lightly, “So, do you have any ideas for your masks?”

A flicker of light passed behind Clarke’s eyes and she nodded, “I do, actually. Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please.”

The artist shuffled out of her seat, placing down her mug and heading over to her work desk to collect an A3 folder. She sat cross-legged on the floor, opening it up and retrieving two sheets from within, “Well, I’m planning on designing one of each Venetian mask. I think I’m going to design them with ceramic rather than papier-mâché.” She pointed to the intricate sketches she’d produced of the various types of masks, “I mean, these are just ideas so far. I think I want to add some music scores to the masks too. I’ll probably use one of my father’s compositions and have different phrases on each mask, or something.”

“That one looks particularly unnerving.” Lexa pointed to one full-face design, the eyeholes vast and features blank.

“Ah, that’s a Volto mask.” Clarke glanced back to the violinist, watching the way pale green eyes lingered on the image, “Do you like feeling unnerved, Lexa?”

Maybe it was the question that stalled the breath in Lexa’s throat, or maybe it was the way in which the question was asked, or maybe it was just the way an inviting deep blue stare drifted across her skin. She took a moment to consider a serious response. Clarke waited. She was used to such silences.

“It’s a rare feeling,” she murmured, “but, yes, I believe I do.”

“Good to know.” The blonde replied with a vaguely amused smile but she meant what she said. Judging by the low-burning flame in her eye, she fully intended on using the new knowledge to her advantage.

“Why, do you like making me feel unnerved?” Lexa asked the question needlessly, already knowing how Clarke would be inclined to respond.

“I’d certainly like to know that I can.”

“Good to know.” Lexa’s eyes drifted back over the sheet of paper, “Who’s the character with the enlarged chin?”

“That’s a Bauta. Quite popular during carnivals, I believe, because you can still eat and drink whilst wearing it.” She leaned back on her palms, “Although, I think I’d be suitably pissed off if somebody ended up spilling Vimto on it, or something.”

“Oh, of course. Vimto. I imagine that’s what everyone will be drinking at the masquerade.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have a favourite?”

“Hm, well, it _was_ the Columbina. You know, the style I wore for the music concert.”

Lexa nodded, slowly, “Was? What’s your favourite now?”

With a smile that promised wicked thoughts, Clarke tilted her head to one side, “Definitely the Volto.”

She swallowed, something passing over her eyes. The artist might’ve been in a mind to address it was she not interrupted by her phone vibrating again. She tore her eyes away from pale green and reluctantly retrieved the device. She frowned slightly, answering the call, “Hi, Murphy.”

“ _Griffin, are you in?_ ” He was drunk.

“In what?”

“ _You know, anything._ ”

“Yes.” She sighed, “I am in something, yes. What do you need?”

“ _More booze or something._ ”

With a sigh, Clarke ran a hand through her hair, “I highly doubt that. What do you really need?”

“ _Ordinarily, I’d rely on myself to offer me some advice but I’m currently unreliable and unavailable._ ”

“And un-sober by the sounds of it.”

“ _Exactly, so I’ll have to request your substandard services instead._ ”

“I’m flattered, really, but I’m afraid my advice was unfortunately deemed too substandard for use so it’s been shut down. Sorry, Murphy. Can’t help.”

He groaned, “ _C’mon, Griffin. I don’t know what else to do._ ”

“Yes, that’s definitely the impression I’m getting.”

“ _Are you at home?_ ”

She considered lying for a moment, disinclined to release the building tension between her and the ethereal being on her settee, but her sense of duty somehow bettered her desires, “Yes.”

“ _Good, because I’m outside. Buzz me, please_.”

“Buzz you? If I didn’t know you better, I’d assume you were trying to solicit me.”

“ _How do you know I’m not?_ ”

“Because you’d hate to embarrass yourself like that in front of Lexa.”

“ _Lexa’s there? Oh, god. Jesus, Griffin._ ”

“Changed your mind about me buzzing you?”

He strongly considered this for a moment, enough to get Clarke’s hopes up, before he exhaled in defeat, “ _Well, I bet she’s already heard how pathetic I sound now so it makes no difference, does it?_ ”

“It probably does,” She stood up and headed towards her door to allow Murphy entry to the building, “but I can see you have other priorities at this point. Just know I will never let you live this down.”

She watched him amble into the building on the screen and ended the call, returning back to put away her sketches, “Murphy’s invited himself over. You alright with that?”

“Sure, I can go if you like?”

Clarke’s eyes snapped to the brunette’s, “Absolutely not. I’m not letting him off the hook that easy. No, ma’am.”

“So, you’re planning on using me to your advantage?”

“Why, are you against me taking advantage of you?” Clarke arched an eyebrow just as Murphy’s knuckles hit the door.

“It’s something I’d like to see you attempt.”

With very little to say in response, the blonde cleared her throat and made her way to open the door, allowing entry to her tutor against all better judgement.

He wandered into the vicinity of the penthouse, clearly trying to maintain his usual sway in front of the musician, “Miss Woods.” He managed a roguish smile, dropping down onto the armchair, “I must admit a sense of surprise seeing you here.”

“Likewise, John.” She returned, concealing whatever musings she may have had, although Clarke suspected it was mostly just amusement.

“But a marvellous surprise all the same.”

“Please stop trying to seduce my guests, Murphy.” Clarke placed a glass of purplish liquid in front of him and he licked his lips.

“Wine, is it?” He asked, swilling the contents around the glass before he allowed himself a taste.

“No. It’s Vimto.”

Something danced behind Lexa’s stare, “You’re spoiling him, Clarke.”

“Oh, I just couldn’t seem to help myself.” She smiled, innocently, “Just look at his little face.”

“Precious.”

Murphy’s expression clouded over, allowing him the appearance of a sulky toddler.

“Don’t give me that look or you’ll be going to bed without any supper. Now, drink your juice.”

“Alright, alright.” He muttered, “You’ve made your point. Can we talk about my heartache now?”

“Yes.” She smoothed out her expression, quickly dropping the mockery, knowing there was only so much Murphy could take, “Do you want a real drink?”

He shook his head, “No. It’s okay. I actually forgot how nice Vimto is. Could’ve made it with lemonade instead of water, though.”

“My apologies. I will aim to do better next time. Now, tell me, what’s up?”

“Am I being a mug?” He asked, nursing his juice with a subtle frown on his face, “Am I being stupid?”

“Well, that all depends.” Clarke looked at her empty mug, as if prompted by Murphy’s questions, sighing quietly to herself.

Lexa rose to her feet, taking the empty mugs with her hands, “Do you want a drink?”

“Whiskey, I think.” She decided, knowing the night was likely to last a lot longer than initially suspected.

“Same, please.” Murphy mumbled, looking at his wineglass, “I’ve finished my juice.”

“Okay, come on, let’s hear it. What’s happened?”

He sighed, leaning back into the cushions, “So, I’ve invited Emori over to work on a project with me, haven’t I? I’m obviously buzzing off my tits about it. Can’t wait to see her again.”

Clarke waited.

“But she’s fucking married, Griffin, in case it wasn’t already painfully obvious. You know, I swore to myself it wouldn’t bother me but I think, I mean, it doesn’t _bother_ me as such. I just, I don’t know, you know?”

She nodded, “Mm.”

“We’ve been talking a lot. Like, a _lot_. You know what I’m like. I’m a people pleaser.”

“I mean, sure, in your own abstract way.”

He groaned, “So, I’m obviously saying about how I don’t mind that she’s married. That I still want her to come and see me. That I’m okay with her going back to him. It shouldn’t get to me. Jesus, I actually used to _like_ sleeping with married women because their marital status immediately makes me seem more attractive, or at least more so than their ungrateful, boring, controlling or cheating counterparts.”

“Right.”

“More often than not, it just turns out that I’m richer than their counterparts but I love anything that isn’t commitment, so it’s fine. Anyway, I _know_ Emori isn’t in love with her husband. Who could be? Yet, I’m still, I don’t know…”

“Jealous?”

“I, I think so.” He seemed surprised at himself, “Which is odd because look at me and look at him. Yet, he has her. How?”

“I guess that’s something you’ll have to speak to her about.”

“What, her marriage?”

Clarke arched an eyebrow, “Well, haven’t you already?”

Murphy shrugged, lightly, “We’ve acknowledged that it’s a thing.”

“Oh, a thing? Great. I’m glad you’ve acknowledged that a lifelong legal commitment is a _thing_ , Murphy.” The blonde pressed her fingers together in thought, “Have you asked about their relationship at all?”

“Oh, yeah, because nothing sets the scene like discussing the other penis that I share her with.”

She received her whiskey in one hand, settled at the sensation of Lexa returning to her seat once more, but unimpressed with Murphy’s remark, “You know something, Murph? I think that’s the issue. Get your brains out of your balls for just a minute and actually _think_.”

He hesitated, whispering a quiet thanks to Lexa for his fresh drink.

“I get that you’re lusty for her or whatever. That’s fine. If you only wanted her for sex, then sure, talking about her marriage beyond any sort of superficial level would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it? But it’s clear you don’t just want her for that otherwise you wouldn’t be drunk at my place, bitching about your feels to me and in front of _Miss Woods_ , no less.”

He opened his mouth but seemed to have very little to say.

“Look, far be it from me to tell you what to do.”

“Never stopped you before.”

Clarke spared him a brief but effective glare, “But this isn’t about _your dick_ , okay? You’re in very early stages of getting to know each other and things have been complicated straight off the bat. See how things go but don’t pressure her. You don’t know her circumstances. You don’t know why they got married or why they’re still married. Maybe she will tell you about it, but the main thing you need to do is actually _talk_ to her, okay? Communication is key.” 

“I know, I know.”

“Obviously you don’t know, Murphy.”

He frowned, swilling his whiskey in the glass, “I do. I’m just a bloody nob-head.”

“Right, so don’t be. I get that it’s hard to be vulnerable. Believe me, I get that, but you’re actually very sweet underneath your pissy exterior. Honestly, I’m dubious as to whether she actually deserves you but, you know, I’m biased. I can tell you really like her, so you need to be understanding of her situation and let her have some of the control. Something tells me she has very little control in her marriage so she will need some time to adjust. Either way, don’t put pressure on yourself and don’t put pressure on her. You deserve to be happy, okay?”

He nodded, slowly, “You think so?”

“Yes, idiot. Lexa?” She glanced to the brunette, who had been sitting in quiet observation throughout the conversation.

She inclined her head, “Clarke’s right.”

He sighed and finished off his whiskey, “Yeah. Well, you can expect plenty more breakdowns in the near future but, for now, I have plenty of things to consider.” He stood up and patted his jeans, “Thanks, Griffin.”

“Any time.”

He glanced between the two, offering Lexa a half-hearted bow, “Miss Woods.”

She returned his gesture with a courteous incline of her head, “Take care, John.”

“Any whiskey for the road, Griff?”

“The road doesn’t need any whiskey.” She rose to her feet and walked him to the door, “Text me when you get home, loser.”

He offered one final lopsided smile before he took his leave, wandering from the penthouse, his usual swagger absent.

Clarke shut the door and let her eyes drift back over to Lexa, who was waiting with unending patience, her legs folded neatly on the sofa. She tilted her head to one side, pale stare observing everything about the young woman walking towards her, “Are you alright?”

“Of course. He’s just an idiot.”

It took the brunette a moment, but she responded in a way Clarke hadn’t been expecting, “You’re worried about him.”

“Well, I suppose, yes. Murphy’s never been like this with a woman before. I mean, sure, I’ve had to deal with him pining over the occasional model plenty, but never this. He’s never rocked up here just to talk about a love interest. This Emori could absolutely break him.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Oh, yeah, and when she does, I’ll be ready to break her.”

Lexa received Clarke back against her side with ease, her hand sliding to rest between her thighs, “I don’t doubt that. The two of you are close.”

“We weren’t always, you know.”

She quirked an eyebrow in interest, “No?”

“No. In fact, when Murphy was first directed to be my tutor, I was disappointed because I’d never known how to take him. He was arrogant and rude and I used to get up on my high horse about it, which obviously made him worse. Then, one day, we just sorta clicked and it worked.”

“Maybe you always develop stronger relationships with people you don’t like to begin with.”

Clarke gave a knowing smirk, shrugging one shoulder, “Maybe.”

She didn’t miss the way green eyes lingered on the shape of her lips and she used it fully to her advantage, allowing the corners to curve upwards just enough to hold Lexa’s interest. The kiss was inevitable. It was inevitable and it was slow. Clarke felt the familiar warmth pool in her stomach at the way Lexa’s mouth fluidly took control of her own. Moments too soon, she pulled away, leaving Clarke flushed and wanting.

“I should go, Clarke.” Her throat was dry, the words reluctantly leaving her mouth.

Even though the artist loathed the idea of Lexa leaving, she knew she had no other option. Or, at least, no other viable option. There was a moment where their eyes met and neither could conceal the heavy longing weighing on the hollows of their chests. They couldn’t continue touching like that; not then. If they’d kept going, it would have become impossible to stop and somewhere, deep down, the two knew it wasn’t the right time.

The beauty of fire could quickly become destructive and both knew all too well that such damage could be irreparable. They had agreed to take this slow and, as with everything else, they would handle the flames of their deep-rooted attraction with delicacy and with grace.


	24. Chapter 23 - English Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support. I've adored reading your comments. I shall avoid rambling on any further and allow you to enjoy the next chapter. 
> 
> Lady Of Cythera

Lexa stood before the shadowed faces of the crowds, her bow pausing against the strings as she stroked the final note. It could have been something about the baroque period in general, but she had always favoured Bach’s sonatas and partitas in particular for many reasons. Mostly, it was because there was something methodical and balanced about them. Although difficult to master, their structure was unbroken, continuous and grounding. It was exactly what she needed.

The systematic sequences restored the order within herself that she felt had been disrupted ever since leaving Arcadia. She had been touring the country for just under a fortnight. Despite knowing she was exactly where she wanted to be, she couldn’t help but look forwards to her return back to the academy. It was fruitless to pretend Clarke had nothing to do with that because she did. She had everything to do with it. Lexa had been nervous because they had started to explore their connection properly right when she was due to leave for her series of concerts. It was anxiety provoking because Clarke had the ability to shroud her mind with thick temptations of her eyes and her lips. She couldn’t afford to lose her focus. That was why she caught herself grateful for the Bach’s steady movements. Although, Clarke hadn’t made any attempt to demand more of Lexa than she could give either. In fact, she had spent some days sitting in the practice room as Lexa rehearsed, quietly carving her miniature sculptures in the corner of the space. It would have been all too easy for her to instigate distraction but she hadn’t. It had settled Lexa at the time because it was enough just to have her near, even if she sat in silence. She spoke only when Lexa requested it. She had promised before she would never deter the violinist away from her music and she had stuck with it.

Lexa caught herself wondering why she had allowed it to take so long to put that trust in Clarke but she knew that it didn’t matter now. Not really. She had one more day to get through before she could return to Arcadia. Before she could return to Clarke. Perhaps, had she reflected on such a thought, she ought to have been worried that she allowed the artist to consume so much of her, but they had been so close to this for so long. Clarke had occupied the furthest corners of her mind for months and, instead of punishing herself for wanting her, she decided she would embrace it.

Although her intention was always for her music to be the cynosure of all senses in the audience, Lexa was feeling ready to escape the spotlight of the stage. Instead, all she really wanted now was to feel invisible to everybody. At least, everybody except the artist. She lingered for just long enough to receive the appropriate level of attention from notable figures in the audience and press. The moment she could, she left, packing away her things and meeting her ride out around the back of the venue. She checked her phone once seated in the backseat, leaning comfortably into the leather.

_From: Clarke_

_[21:03] I hope you don’t mind but I purchased the live showing of your performance online. Bravissima._

_To: Clarke_

_[21:49] How dare you contribute to the lining of my pockets?_

_From: Clarke_

_[22:00] You deserve the best pockets_

Lexa smiled faintly to herself, returning her phone to her bag as she arrived at the hotel. The event managers were helpful enough but she had been more than grateful to have ditched them back at the music hall. She planned on using room service for dinner that night. She felt she’d earned it. Her spirits had been settled as she’d left the stage, but even having that small contact with Clarke had been enough to disturb the calm equilibrium she had only just managed to develop.

The moment she had settled into bed, washed and fed, she glanced at her phone with hesitancy. She toyed with the idea of keeping the conversation going with Clarke, holding herself back with the worry that she would be moving too quickly if she was to say what she wanted to or even messaging her too late into the evening. During her needless deliberation, she received another message from Clarke, promoting something of a coward’s guilt in her stomach.

_From: Clarke_

_[23:04] I imagine you’ll be exhausted so I’ll let you sleep but I just wanted to let you know that your performance brought me some very much needed peace at the end of a pretty hectic day. You are flawless._

Lexa’s chest tightened at the words she read.

_To: Clarke_

_[23:06] Perhaps you are simply accustomed to the flaws. Why has your day been hectic?_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:07] Misogynists. Goddamn misogynists._

_To: Clarke_

_[23:07] Do you want to talk about it?_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:08] Not right now. I don’t want to lose the feeling you’ve given me_

_To: Clarke_

_[23:09] I’m willing to give you such a feeling any time you like_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:09] Yeah?_

_[23:10] What other feelings are you willing to give me?_

Lexa faltered, her thumbs hovering over her screen. It was difficult to read Clarke’s tone over text but she could almost see the challenging quirk of her brow and the gentle curve of her lips.

_To: Clarke_

_[23:11] That all depends on what it is that you want to feel_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:12] There are many things I want to feel with you_

Her skin turned hot and she almost dropped her phone, wondering exactly how far Clarke wanted to take this. One thing was for sure, she was willing to find out.

_To: Clarke_

_[23:12] Tell me_

_[23:13] What do you want to feel the most?_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:14] Honestly, right now I just want to feel you touching me_

_To: Clarke_

_[23:14] How do you want me to touch you?_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:16] Any way you like._

Lexa bit her lip, running her eyes over her messages once more.

_To: Clarke_

_[23:17] But I want to know what you like_

Lexa could almost feel Clarke’s hesitation, watching the typing symbol flash on and off for a few moments. Her heart picked up somewhere in the depths of her chest as she awaited the verdict. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how the messages were going to progress, whether they even would progress. All she knew was that she liked the cautious honesty.

_From: Clarke_

_[23:20] Hands_

_To: Clarke_

_[23:21] Hands?_

_From: Clarke_

_[23:23] You can put them anywhere, just as long as they’re on me_

_To: Clarke_

_[23:24] Noted._

The next day brought with it a crispness; it was warm, the breeze still smelling like English summer, but the sky was both cloudless and sunless. The earth hadn’t heated up yet. Lexa had fallen asleep soon after messaging Clarke, knowing she had about a half day’s drive back to London from the North the next day. Of course, it wasn’t her driving. The event managers had organised it all on her behalf which still took Lexa a bit of getting used to.

She looked at the blurs of fields and lakes through the window, watching how the blues in the sky strengthened as the morning woke. As they approached the capital, the traffic thickened along with the air. Lexa found she had been quite taken with the charm of the countryside but the prospect of returning back to the business of city life, although exhausting, brought with it comfort. Lexa favoured routine and she favoured places and people she knew.

Anya was keen to see her upon her return. She had also purchased Lexa’s final performance online and was therefore probably going to provide a full rundown of the entire show, including every mistake. Lexa felt she already knew which parts Anya would focus on so she was almost ready to receive the critique in that sense. Fortunately, the music tutor had been through the sort of week that warranted alcohol and, as such, the critique proved far sweeter when it was delivered over a whiskey. In fact, it was delivered over several whiskeys. They weren’t the watered-down sorts, either. They were straight from Anya’s own collection in her office.

There may have been a time when Lexa would have questioned why the music tutor had such an abundance of alcohol stored in her professional working environment but now, she was just thankful for it. Questioning Anya, in any case, usually proved to be more challenging than it was worth.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“So, how was it?”

“With what?”

“You know what. With Emori.”

Murphy looked into the contents of his beer glass, almost surprised that there was still at least three quarters of a pint in there. He shrugged, “Honestly?”

Clarke prevented herself from making a sarcastic comment in response, noticing the defeated turn of his lips.

He looked back up to his tutee, a crease between his brows, “It was amazing, Griffin. It was, just, it was out of this fucking world.”

She felt justified in feeling the confusion that she did. Murphy’s plaintive expression seemed suddenly comical in conjunction with the content of his speech. “I don’t know how to react to this.” She said eventually.

Murphy sighed, “Look, it was three nights of just pure bliss and then she goes and returns to her horrible pervy pig of a husband and it makes me feel sick.” He hesitated, “Don’t bother with the whole ‘I told you so’ bollocks, either.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He looked a little guilty then, “Yeah, I know. I’d deserve it, though.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’ve tortured yourself enough.” Clarke leaned back in her seat, taking another swig of her beer, “So, what are you going to do?”

He shrugged, “What can I do except just wait for her to make up her mind?”

She frowned slightly, “Does she know she’s supposed to make up her mind?”

“What do you mean?”

With a patient sigh, Clarke shifted in her seat, “I mean, what have you said to her?”

“Just, you know, stuff.”

“Stuff.” She repeated, “Have you asked her at all about her marriage?”

He sighed, chewing his lip with a bitter expression on his features, “A little, but she came over here to escape him, not to talk more about him.”

Clarke withheld the disappointed exhale threatening to leave her lips and shifted in her seat, “Yes. I know, Murph, and I know you didn’t want her to go back to her husband, but have you given her another choice?”

He frowned, “What other choice could I give her?”

“What I mean is that you can’t just expect her to know that you’d be willing to offer her security should she leave her husband. She’d be uprooting her entire life by doing so. I know he’s disgusting and she deserves better, I _know_. But it’s still a huge life-changing decision to make. Have you told her how you actually, _truly_ feel?”

“Griffin, I can’t just ask her to end her marriage for me. If she leaves him, it has to be because she wants to for her own reasons. Not just so she can come and live happily ever after with me. She can’t possibly leave a man she’s been married to for years for me, who she’s known for a matter of weeks.”

“I get that. I’m not saying you have to ask her to leave him. I’m just saying that it could be helpful for her to know that if she _does_ leave him, you won’t just drop her.”

He appeared bewildered, “I would have assumed it was pretty obvious that I want something serious with her.”

“Never assume anything, Murphy. For all she knows, you find her all the more exciting because you can’t have her.”

Murphy thought about this, taking a reluctant sip of his drink, “What do you suggest I do then? Write her sonnets? Duel her husband with a sabre?” He asked almost sarcastically.

“Look, it’s all well and good to make grand gestures of love, providing that love has already been built on something solid beforehand. Otherwise, it can look as though you’re just willing to go to any lengths to get laid.” Clarke felt a little sorry for him when he didn’t produce another witty comment and took compassion, “You need to be honest with her. As honest as you can. In the meantime, if you’re sure you’re ready to commit to her, be patient. She’ll come to you when she’s ready. If she doesn’t, then you know you’ve at least done all you can.”

“Honesty.” He raised his eyebrows, clearly about to say something Clarke would make sure he regretted.

“Before you start turning this around on me, Murphy, I’d advise you to just stop and think for a moment. I’m not professing to be any kind of expert on love because I’m really not. My experience is having somebody who proclaimed their undying love for me leave me when I needed them the most. That’s what people fear more than anything. Emori has to know you won’t do that. It’s fine for you to tell her you won’t but that proves nothing. She needs time to see it. To know for sure. Then she can look at ending her marriage if that’s what she wants to do.”

Murphy said nothing for a moment, still staring at his beer moodily. Instead of filling his head with more reassurance, Clarke just sat back and observed him, waiting for her words to finally make some sort of sense. Sure enough, after a few more moments of dropping daggers into his beverage, Murphy looked up, conquered, “I hate you when you’re right.”

“You must hate me literally all the time, then.”

He flashed her a disapproving glare, “That’s my line.”

“Then you should feel flattered that I’m using it.”

They sat in grumpy but companionable silence for a short while, sipping gently at their drinks. It didn’t take long before Murphy changed his tune, his eyes following a moving target just over Clarke’s shoulder. She knew why he was smirking the way he was without having to turn around. Automatically, her heart thundered in her chest. She pretended not to notice his wicked change in demeanour and instead focused on her drink, wondering why her body had suddenly decided to forget how to do literally everything.

Immediately, Clarke thought of their messages from the previous night. She thought of the evening spent with Lexa in her workshop when the brunette had been pressed against her side, lips tentative and wanting. Her hand had been wrapped around her thigh. She thought of the way they kissed on her sofa the night Murphy rolled up drunk, and the way their bodies had longed for more. Her cheeks quickly picked up the heat she’d felt passing through her body that evening. She’d hoped for the colour to subside before Murphy noticed and tried to conceal it by knocking back a mouthful of beer. She had hoped that the next time she saw Lexa, they would be alone together. Before she could pursue such dangerously tempting thoughts, Clarke tried to distract herself with reflection on the last couple of days. She’d been occupied following up the progress of the board, ensuring her father’s wishes were being executed as she’d stipulated. Naturally, there were those who continued to dig their heels in but she would see to them in due course. At least the board had reluctantly agreed to the likely success of the masquerade, so that was one hurdle cleared.

As much as she would’ve liked to keeping her mind engaged by chasing such a train of thought, she was brutally brought back to the present by a kick from Murphy under the table. She blinked and looked up, finding Anya and Lexa both watching her, standing at the head of the table.

“Hi.” She managed, the colour springing back to her cheeks as she felt Lexa’s cool gaze run over her features, “Hello.”

“Hi.” Anya returned, an amused gleam lighting up the chilling darkness to her stare.

“Hello.” Lexa was far more capable of concealing her own humour to the situation but she knew Clarke would be able to see it in the minute twitch of her lips. Suddenly, the artist felt the flames erupt in her chest with a sense of urgency. It wasn’t fair that Lexa could appear as controlled as she did while she herself was crumbling. Murphy examined the interaction with his signature smirk. If he hadn’t been feeling so dejected a moment ago, she might have considered spilling the remainder of her drink on him.

“Are you going to sit?” Murphy gestured to the vacant spaces beside himself and Clarke.

It seemed Anya had already made up her mind that’s exactly what they were going to do and she dropped herself beside the art tutor, resting her glass on a paper coaster. Clarke tried her utmost hardest not to make some sort of strangled noise with her throat as Lexa lowered herself onto the bench beside her.

Their thighs touched and Clarke knew it wasn’t by accident. Just as she was planning how to seek vengeance on the calm confidence the brunette emanated, she felt a hand slide to cover hers under the table. Lexa squeezed gently and broke contact once more. She knew the motion had been intended as some sort of treaty between the two of them but Clarke’s body was still caught somewhere in the realms of fire – as it usually was whenever Lexa touched her. But it wasn’t enough. With her throat dry, Clarke inhaled through her nose, teeth clamping down on her lower lip.

“So, what gossip do you have for me?” Murphy leaned back comfortably in his seat, addressing the general population. Neither Anya nor Lexa were naturals at small-talk and Clarke had already shared all of her gossip. “Jesus, it’s like trying to spark a conversation with corpses.”

“Maybe you should have brought along your Ouija board.” Clarke suggested, bringing both elbows to rest on the table. If she kept her hand under the table, she wasn’t sure she would be able to keep it to herself. The sensation of Lexa’s thigh against her own quelled the natural tension between them somewhat but the memory of the last time they’d kissed still burned bright in the forefront of her mind.

“It set itself on fire last time I tried to use it so I’m all out of dangerous artifacts.”

“I assumed you would have had at least a spare.”

“That _was_ the spare.”

“What happened to your other one?”

Murphy shrugged, “My dog ate it. Then the poltergeist ate my dog.”

“Couldn’t you hire a priest?”

“I did. Fortunately, the poltergeist ate him too.”

“Why is that fortunate?”

“Because the priest was trying to eat _me_.”

Anya raised an eyebrow at the expressionless humour passing between the two artists and sighed, “Why are you both like this?”

Murphy turned to her, “Griffin and I don’t know how to interact normally with other humans. You could have avoided all of this if you’d just answered my question.”

“What gossip could I possibly have to share?”

Clarke took another swig of beer and scoffed, “Anya, you have more secrets than any of us. If anybody has gossip, it’s you.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.” She looked for a moment too long at both Clarke and Lexa, “What about you?”

Clarke felt her heart thud in relief as the musician shifted the heat onto Murphy instead, her eyes dragging mercifully over to the art tutor.

“Nothing, nothing.” He brushed her aside, his interest sparking in his drink again, “Nothing at all.”

“Seems like none of us have any gossip, then. I suppose we’re all destined to sit in silence.” Anya didn’t appear disappointed at this prospect.

“Miss Woods, I can’t help but notice you’re quieter than usual.” Murphy observed, bravely.

Lexa’s eyes slid carefully across to him with one eyebrow threatening to raise.

Anya seemed to be battling with herself and then opened her lips before she could really stop herself, “Lexa’s been debating whether to go over to the dark, talentless and dull side of music, haven’t you?”

“Oh? What side is that? Death metal?” Murphy asked, frowning.

“Darker.” Anya’s eye gleamed.

“Oh.” His mouth turned down at the corners, “ _Pop?_ ”

She twitched a shoulder, casually, “Anya is grossly exaggerating. I didn’t say yes.”

“What’s this?” Clarke angled her body towards her, “What’s the offer?”

For a moment, Lexa appeared unsure of herself. Her hesitancy was brief but noticeable. At least, it was to Clarke. “Ash, as in Echo, asked if I would do some samples for her on the violin. It was something she asked me a while back and she happened to mention it to me again. It isn’t anything noteworthy. I can’t see that I’ll have the time, either.”

Clarke had mixed thoughts. Mixed emotions. She didn’t need to look at Murphy to know the disappointment would be etched across his features.

“I will disown you if you have anything to do with that uncultured child.” Anya spoke first, examining her nails.

“What has she done to offend you?” Murphy asked, “I mean, I completely agree, but isn’t she friends with your cousin?”

“Who Lincoln is friends with is of no concern to me.” It appeared that was all Anya was going to say on the subject, despite her being the one to instigate the discussion in the first place.

Clarke sighed, hoping to keep the peace, and let her gaze settle fully on Lexa’s, “Is it something you want to do?”

“I don’t have any particular desire to.”

She wasn’t prepared to admit it aloud but she couldn’t help but feel mild irritation at the knowledge Lexa had condescended to have a conversation with the singer but had fought tooth and nail against a connection with Clarke. “So, why don’t you say no?”

“I have insinuated that it isn’t a possibility already.”

“And she knows that?”

Lexa shrugged, “I can reinforce it if she asks again. It wasn’t a formal offer, Clarke. She made the suggestion and I stated it wasn’t really a viable option for me right now. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for my publicity to get my name spread across a new genre of music but I simply don’t have the time for it.”

“Being phased into a distorted backing track for a generic EDM is hardly a true representation of your talents.” Clarke shook her head, “It’s an insult. I can’t imagine that you’d ever have time for something like that.”

Lexa couldn’t argue with that. Judging by the expression in her eyes, it seemed she’d already considered that small truth. Clarke kept herself level. Everybody already knew her stance on Ash, especially Lexa. She didn’t need to make it any more painfully obvious. The moment stretched.

“Well, I’m going to get another beer.” Murphy broke the tension easily and stepped around Anya, checking his pocket for his wallet as he awaited his orders, “Griffin?”

“Yeah. Please.”

Nobody said anything immediately after Murphy had gone. Anya didn’t seem to care that there was a silence and was more than content just sipping at her drink, scrolling through her phone. Clarke leaned back in her seat, fixing her eyes on the table. It wasn’t that she was angry that Lexa had considered collaborating with Ash particularly, although she had to say she wasn’t keen on the idea. She was angry because she knew _why_ Ash wanted to collaborate with her. She was certain that it wasn’t a jealousy thing as Murphy might’ve had her believe. Lexa’s talents far surpassed any other musician she’d heard, save perhaps for Anya, and to have her fall into such a mundane mainstream trap could have been catastrophic for her reputation. She was angry because Lexa obviously didn’t seem to recognise that. At least, if she did, she made no attempt to communicate it. She just sat there, calmly drinking her whiskey. Instead of dwelling on the matter, Clarke made an attempt to change the subject, deciding she was only going to end up getting herself worked up otherwise.

“So, how was the tour, anyway?” She asked.

“Good, thank you.” Lexa nodded, having another delicate sip of her drink, “Long, though.”

Clarke inclined her head, tapping her fingers lightly against the table, “Yeah. Good. I mean, good that it was good. Not that it was long, I guess. Unless it was good that it was long?”

Anya didn’t look up from her phone screen, but her eyebrows climbed a little higher towards her hairline.

Lexa would have been well within her rights to torment Clarke for her uncharacteristic inability to conduct small-talk just then, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned towards Clarke, meeting her gaze steadily, “I’m glad to be back, Clarke.”

She swallowed, “Yeah?”

“Mm.” When Lexa’s hand shifted beneath the table, Clarke felt her fingers wrapping gently around her thigh. This time, she didn’t just squeeze and pull away. She left her hand right where it was. It was the sort of touch that carried with it a sense of inexplicable reassurance. For a moment, the bubbling frustration in her chest was quelled, just enough.

“Here.” Murphy’s return briefly claimed her attention and he set down the pint in front of her with a dull thud, “I’m glad to see you’ve all managed to keep the conversation flowing without me.”

Clarke accepted the drink and shrugged, “We were bitching about you but you’re back now so…”

“If that’s the case, I have plenty to contribute.” He grinned, slyly.

The conversation that passed between them all was mostly light-hearted and meaningless. There wasn’t a single member of the party that seemed inclined in any way to bring up subjects requiring deep thought. Clarke assumed that Murphy’s mind was busy with Emori. Anya remained a mystery but was rarely enthusiastic about engaging in stimulating conversation on the daily. Clarke, herself, was hardly able to think about anything other than the way Lexa’s hand shaped itself around her thigh. Judging by the quickened pulse under the violinist’s thumb, her mind was likely running along the same road.

“Are you planning on going out anywhere after this?” Murphy glanced to Anya who just shrugged.

“Why, do you want to?”

“I don’t _not_ want to.”

Anya paused, turning her attention to the art tutor, “So, you want to.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Commit to it, Picasso.”

“Fine. Yes. I want to go out. Do you?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Arse.”

The musician swept her eyes lazily across the table, pulling both Clarke and Lexa underneath her knowing gaze with ease, “So, how about it?”

“Actually, I’m a little tired from travelling.” Lexa said smoothly.

Clarke cleared her throat, focusing her attention on her beer, “Yeah, uh, me too.”

“You’re tired from Lexa’s travelling?” Anya fought to keep a straight face.

“Yeah – no. No, I just meant I’m tired too.” She said, quickly.

There was a silence.

Anya smirked.

Murphy slurped his beer.

“So, where are you planning on going?” Lexa asked, her palm sliding ever so slightly upwards. Clarke bit her lip. Hard.

“I want to go to the new gin bar. There’s a saffron and verbena that I’m simply aching to try.” Murphy took another large gulp of his beer.

“Sounds delightful.” Anya rolled her eyes, “Are you both _sure_ you’re too tired to come with?”

Lexa’s fingers flexed around Clarke’s thigh and it took all she had not to groan. Really, though, observing the snake-like mischief in the music tutor’s eyes, she already knew the two of them had no intention of joining in with the gin.

“Perhaps another time. You’ll have to let me know how the saffron and verbena tastes, John.” Lexa kept it together so easily but of course she did. She rarely broke face in front of anybody. The thought of watching her façade crumble the moment they were alone was enough to carry Clarke through the painful ordeal of suppressing her imminent desires.

Both Anya and Murphy took their time finishing off their drinks, seemingly in no hurry whatsoever to take the next step into their evening.

“What do you think, Ms Crainn? Another one, or…?” Murphy stretched back in his chair, taking on the mannerisms of a cat as he did so.

“Oh, quite possibly.” She turned her amused smile onto the two sitting opposite, “Another?”

Clarke shook her head, “Fine, thanks.” She mumbled through a dry mouth.

“Oh, go on.” Murphy’s grin widened, “One more, surely?”

Lexa tilted her head to one side, eyes bearing into Anya’s and, for a moment, Clarke felt genuine fear. The severity in Lexa’s stare was fleeting but unmissable. Anya conceded then with an innocent quirk of her eyebrow, “Looks like it’s just the two of us then.”

He gave up the act and inclined his head, rising to his feet, “Have a good evening. Hope you both get plenty of rest.” Then, his eyes sparkled.

The moment they had all stepped out into the evening air, each saying their goodbyes, Lexa shifted her attention solely onto Clarke, “How tired are you?”

Clarke bit her lip, glancing at the gentle gleam of humour dancing behind the brunette’s eyes, “Why, do you have something in mind?”

“Well, I got you something.”

“What?”

“I got you something.” She repeated, “It’s nothing much. Just a little token thing when I was passing through the North. It’s back at my place, though. So, if you’re not too tired from me travelling, maybe you’d like to come over so I can give it to you.”

Clarke just inclined her head, worried how her voice might sound if she used it.

The walk back to Lexa’s was charged with the sort of quiet electricity that both frightened Clarke and intrigued her. She knew it was a dangerous feeling and yet she felt safe as the anticipation crawled beneath her skin. All she wanted was to be alone with her. To feel her. It was maddening. There was no need for small talk. They could discuss how the tour went later. There were other priorities to meet. So, as a result, the walk continued in comfortable but baited silence.

Lexa stepped inside the comforts of her place and closed the door behind them, soundlessly offering to take Clarke’s jacket. Once shoes and boots had been neatly placed by the coat rack, Lexa invited her guest through to the living room. With haste, she ducked into her bedroom and returned shortly afterward with a small gift bag, “It’s nothing much.” She cleared her throat, “Just something I thought you might like to try.”

Despite the pressing urge growing in Clarke’s stomach, she was settled for a moment with a gentle warmth as the soft anticipation laced Lexa’s features. She took the bag and peered inside, finding a fancy looking packet, “English Rose tea? Loose leaf?” Her smile widened, “And a tea strainer? Where is this from?” She shook her head, her smile unbroken, smelling the contents of the bag.

“A quaint little tearoom I came across in the North.” She gave a small shrug, shoulders barely raising upwards as her eyes fell steadily to Clarke’s, “I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you while I was away.”

“Thank you, Lexa. You really didn’t need to do this, but I’m glad you did.”

A thickened tension blanketed the space between the two and the brunette wavered. There appeared to be a few thoughts she wished to verbalise but her expression suggested she was battling with the notion of whether she needed to say anything at all. Clarke was deliberating, taking her lower lip beneath her teeth, and it seemed that Lexa’s ideas of instigating further conversation quickly dissolved along with the stiffness in her jaw.

“I missed you, you know.” Clarke said simply, unashamedly. 

Lexa’s voice was softer than expected and she swallowed before speaking, eyes slipping back to Clarke’s “I, I missed you too. A lot.”

Clarke looked as if she might’ve wanted to introduce a little humour for a moment, but then saw the shallow breaths of Lexa’s chest and caught herself instead. Slowly, she let her eyes run over the violinist’s features, from the sharp cuts of her jaw to the weighted green of her eyes. She took a step closer, bridging the aching distance between them, “Lexa, will you do something for me? Before we do anything else?”

In that moment, Lexa looked as if she would have done anything asked of her, no matter how painful or impossible the task could be. She inclined her head, silently.

“Will you touch me? Please? Properly.”

The cool flames ignited behind Lexa’s eyes and her entire facial structure softened. With an obedient nod, she moved gracefully into Clarke’s space, hands sliding to her waist. She held her firmly but she was cautious in letting her palms recall the sensation of having the blonde under her touch. For a few passing seconds, Clarke allowed herself just to breathe, inhaling Lexa’s scent, letting their torsos settle against the other. Gently, the artist ran her hand up along Lexa’s arm, eventually curling it around the side of her neck, thumb running along the edge of her jaw. Their lips neared but did not touch; not right away. Hearts beating almost in sync, the two moved even closer, muscles pressing together. Then, their lips met.

The kiss wasn’t immediately blinding. It was not an instant release of surging energy as an artificially constructed scene may have depicted. The faucets were turned on, but the chemistry dripped, almost excruciatingly slowly. Yet, it was exactly how it needed to be. The two were still learning the other and they still would be for some time to come. There was a lot to understand. There was a lot they wanted to understand. Therefore, the kiss began slow and undemanding. It wasn’t about getting what one could from the other. It wasn’t about seeing how far they could go. It was about months and months of carefully cultivated respect and desire. Naturally, amidst those qualities, lust was born. There was no denying the deep-set attraction they shared but they had spent enough time grafting a solid enough foundation to support the measured discovery of each other. Besides, they had the time to dedicate to such selfless exploration that evening. There was no rush. Not right then. Not in that moment.

Even though the way they touched was sensual, mouths searching and hands gripping, it was not simply to appease a sexual desire. It was to demonstrate intimacy and trust. It was to remind them that they meant something to each other. That the absence between them had been keenly felt. They kissed without the pressure of forcing gratification on themselves and yet, they received gratification through tending to the other anyway.

Clarke’s fingers slid into Lexa’s hair, gripping just hard enough to evoke a soft groan from the brunette’s lips. The noise alone was enough to send a heavy shudder rolling over her spine. She paused, mouth open, chest expanding, as the heat crawled beneath every inch of skin. She pulled back, just to get a glimpse of the want as it hooked itself deep into Lexa’s expression. The violinist waited. She waited for Clarke to return to her, to taste her once more, but the artist boded her time. She experimentally pressed the pad of her thumb to Lexa’s lower lip, dragging it over the plump skin, liking the way it made her pale eyes roll back into her head.

“Clarke.”

The blonde paused, eyes flickering to meet an unfocused, subarctic stare. A challenge lay deep beneath the depths of green, almost daring the blonde to try her patience. So, she did, most likely against her better judgement.

Experimentally, Clarke moved the tip of her thumb to rest between Lexa’s teeth. She paused, letting the realisation settle. Then, carefully, Lexa applied small pressure to the thumb, biting just hard enough to make the artist gasp. Yet, just as confidently, she pressed the tip of her tongue against Clarke’s skin, as if to soothe the sting.

It was merely a glimpse into what could be; the tilting balance of power.

In response to such thoughts, Clarke bit her lip, the heat pooling in the pit of her stomach at the possibilities. She knew Lexa’s gaze was drawn to her mouth. She knew that she was the reason the violinist’s pupils were blown so wide. And she knew exactly what she wanted. As if to prompt her, Lexa breathed her name once more but, this time, with urgency. In quiet surrender, Clarke pressed their lips together again at her unspoken request. The urgency didn’t fade as their kiss deepened and the heat didn’t subside. Hands squeezed at Clarke’s hips, lightly and fleetingly at first, but when she rolled them into Lexa’s, her grip tightened. She held fast then, keeping the blonde’s hips firmly against her own, a reprimand waiting behind her teeth should she try and move away again.

For Clarke, the desire continued to drip, sliding down her skin like sweat. She was certain Lexa felt it, too. How could she not? Her certainty came from the way the brunette’s hands were pushing the hem of her top upwards, just enough so she could move the pads of her thumbs into Clarke’s bare hipbones.

The response was a knee-jerk reaction and it sounded like a whimper; a plea, almost. Had Lexa not felt the demand in their kiss, she might’ve taken it as such. As it was, the admission leaving Clarke’s lips was nothing short of an instruction. It marked the change in pace. From something cautious and attentive to something deep and wanting, and Lexa listened. She moved with the shift.

The backs of her calves knocked against the sofa and she broke from the kiss to breathe sharply at the contact. The shock of seeing blue hit her harder though, purely because of the way Clarke was looking at her, eyes heavy but patient. She was giving Lexa a choice.

“Clarke, I–” The tightness in her throat cut off the remainder of her sentence.

“Hm?”

But the brunette couldn’t speak.

With immediacy, Clarke’s expression softened, “It’s okay,” she murmured, “we can stop if you like.”

She shook her head, “No, no, it isn’t that.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper and, had Clarke not been so attuned to the way she spoke, she might’ve missed the words she said.

“What is it?”

Lexa took a grounding breath, her hands sliding upwards to wrap around Clarke’s waist, thumbs running over her skin, “You just make me feel a lot of things, Clarke.”

“What sort of things?”

Lexa looked at her, the weight of her stare conveying what words could not. She was overcome. She was open and vulnerable. Yet, Clarke knew there was something she fought hard to remain hidden. She was holding something back, despite the transparency of her stare.

“Do you want me closer to you, Lexa?” Clarke’s voice, low and husky, appealed to the shadows in her pale green gaze.

She swallowed, head angling forwards just enough for the blonde to notice.

“Okay.” With gentle control, Clarke rested her hands against Lexa’s shoulders, “Sit.”

She exhaled, evidently unable to articulate any of the thoughts pounding through her head and carefully lowered herself onto the sofa, fingers slowly slipping away from the blonde’s waist. With a surety, Clarke caught one of her hands in her own, and she took a step towards her, “Don’t stop touching me.”

Her throat tightened visibly at the instruction and she nodded her head, the magnetic pull of her desperate stare drawing Clarke ever deeper. With caution, the latter moved so she was standing either side of her legs. She guided Lexa’s hand to rest back on her hip, her own hands sliding to cup her cheeks. With an unbroken gaze, Clarke lowered herself into the brunette’s lap, knees straddling her thighs, and Lexa adapted to it all too easily. Her hands took control of themselves, slipping beneath Clarke’s top again and grazing over her spine.

Finding herself able to reach Lexa’s mouth from an entirely new angle excited her and she could feel her muscles behaving of their own accord, hands falling to firm shoulders beneath her. Yet, she could still sense Lexa was holding back. She was letting Clarke take the lead for a reason. She knew it was exactly a case of that; _letting_ her take the lead. Lexa had the inborn ability to control everything around her but she relented that either for or because of the artist.

They stayed like that for an immeasurable length of time, paying deep attention to the responses of the other, mouths connecting over and over. Clarke’s hips rolled of their own accord into Lexa’s and the latter pulled away quickly, her head dropping back onto the sofa, “Dammit, Clarke.”

Somehow, she still managed to sound eloquent and Clarke bit her lip, pulling back to observe her expression in full, “Sorry.” She breathed the apology with a heaving chest.

Lexa inhaled pensively, eyes closing tightly as her hands held tighter onto the blonde’s pelvis, “No. Don’t apologise.” Slowly, eyes of pale green revealed themselves, fixing hazily on blue but they must have seen something Clarke hadn’t known was there, “Are you okay?”

“I – yes. Should I slow down? I think, I just think that if we carry on like this, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stop.”

“By stop, you mean…?”

Clarke tilted her head to one side, “Come on, you know what I mean. I want to take it further with you but I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s jaw fell slack.

Her azure stare flickered to the full lips she had spent the latter part of the evening tending to, “Is that alright?”

“Is that, is that alright?” She repeated, blinking, “Of course, Clarke. I just, I didn’t know you’d considered that as a possibility for us.”

“Wait, what? You’re kidding, right?” The artist sat beside her, looking at her in disbelief, “How could I not consider that as an eventual possibility? You’re aware of the things your hands do to me, right? And you’re aware I am literally straddling you right now?”

“I – oh. Yes.”

“Oh. Yes.” Clarke repeated in vague humour, raising her eyebrows meaningfully, “So, you’ve never considered that we’d eventually get to that point?”

Bronze cheeks darkened, “I’m only human, Clarke, and you’re not the only one with an affinity to hands.”

With a smirk, she moved her hand to rest over Lexa’s collarbone, fingers running over the dip beneath her throat, “No?”

“Mm.” She pursed her lips together tightly, hands reflexively squeezing Clarke’s hips, “ _No._ ”

It was empowering to see such profound human emotion set so deeply in the pits of Lexa’s eyes, in the tautness of her jaw and in the shape of her lips, and knowing that she, Clarke, was the cause of it. She had seen Lexa at her most powerful and, even when vulnerable, the violinist still exerted such control in her poise. Yet, now, she sat beneath Clarke, at her mercy, muscles one more touch away from crumbling. The artist knew, as a certainty, that such a position was merely a glimpse into how Lexa would look when they finally did reach that point together. She felt, right in her core, that they would get there. It was inevitable. It had taken months and months of cultivation to get to the stage they were at then and it wasn’t that they were fragile in any respect. They understood each other’s character well enough to share intimacy. Now, they just had to work on understanding the bodies that held such characters within. Clarke usually made quick work of learning people’s physicality. She had studied multitudes of bodies for a career and such studies were quickly becoming her legacy. Yet, she knew there were complexities beyond what she knew of Lexa already and she was in no rush to reach the destination without first relishing the journey, despite how cliché such a prospect sounded in her head. 

“You’re thinking very hard.” Lexa observed quietly, her eyes pinning Clarke’s in place with ease.

She nodded, “I was, yes.” At Lexa’s silence, the blonde smirked slightly, “What, you want me to divulge?”

But, of course, she did. She didn’t need to answer.

“I was thinking how enjoyable it’s going to be to learn your body the way I’ve been learning your mind.”

The tension in Lexa’s jaw slipped visibly.

Clarke leaned a little closer, her lips grazing the sharp cut of her cheekbone and then hovering by her ear. She left a gentle kiss beneath her lobe and pulled back, “And I’m going to do it slowly. Slow enough that I don’t leave any part of you untended to.”

Of course, the brunette was left in stunned silence, waiting for something, or someone, to remind her how to use her mouth for speaking. Clarke didn’t break the quiet. Eventually, the enigma beneath her was able to shift her palm to rest on the side of her neck, thumb running along the underside of her jaw, “Okay.”

Clarke hesitated, “Okay?”

Lexa nodded, fingers trailing across her skin in a way that made her shudder from the base of her skull all the way to the soles of her feet, “Mm.”

As easily as that, their positions had switched without Lexa needing to say more than one word, and Clarke was reminded once more of the possibilities that awaited them. She recalled thinking that they could spend months studying the other and still find themselves surprised by their discoveries.

“Are you alright, Clarke?”

She was inclined to curse the violinist’s very name at the way her words poured from her lips like honey, “Yes. Bit dehydrated, though. Maybe we could try a cup of that rose tea.” She suggested, the husk in her voice making her dry throat painfully obvious.

“Of course.” Lexa waited for her to shift herself so the two could head into the kitchen to prepare the drinks.

Making tea was an event so normal that the contrasting thickness connecting the two of them felt almost comical. It might have been had Clarke not been focusing on regulating the strain on her lungs. Lexa did nothing to help with that, standing like the statuesque spectre she could be, only to let her eyes slide across the space between them every so often to peel back every inch of Clarke’s resolve. Perhaps taking things slowly was going to prove more challenging than she’d anticipated.

“I hope this meets your standards.” Lexa passed the steaming mug towards her.

“I’m sure it will surpass them.” They both made their way back into the living room, Clarke finding her body naturally gravitating to sit close to Lexa’s. The latter accommodated her without deliberation, her free hand sliding between Clarke’s thighs. They sat in companionable silence, each waiting for their tea to cool enough to take the first sip of judgement.

“Oh, god. That’s gorgeous.” Clarke released a satisfied sigh and sunk further into the cushions, legs pressing closer to Lexa’s.

“I quite agree.”

“Thank you so much for this.”

Lexa inclined her head in graceful response before she went on to ask, “Are you staying over tonight?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes. Although, you should know I don’t plan on either of us sleeping on the sofa.”

Lexa’s eye twinkled in soft humour, “No, I suspected not.”

They took another break from conversation, appreciating the taste of the hot rose tea until Clarke eventually turned her attention back to the brunette, “So, you reckon Anya and Murphy think they’re clever?”

“Why, because they were going to such gallant efforts to throw not-so-subtle hints about us in our direction?”

“Mm.” Clarke inclined her head, “I know they thought it was the things they were saying that made me sweat but, really, it was just having your hand on my thigh that did it.”

Lexa almost choked on her tea, but somehow managed to bounce back into a smooth recovery and, as if prompted, squeezed her thigh with slow purpose, “Well, Clarke, any time you want me to make you sweat, you just let me know.”

This time, it was Clarke who almost choked. Lexa merely smiled faintly, continuing to sip elegantly at her tea.


	25. Chapter 24 - A Crimson Blazer and a Black Cravat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> Firstly, I want to apologise for the length of time it has taken for me to finally complete this chapter. As is the same for everyone, I have had a very challenging few months and my creativity seemed to have deserted me for an inexcusably long time. I want to thank you all for your patience and for continuing to reach out to me, either on here or through Tumblr. I am very grateful for you all for that. I had hoped to get this chapter out around Christmas/New Year, but I have tried to hit as close to the target date as I possibly could.
> 
> I finally got this chapter finished today and I hope it is up to standard. I haven't fully had the opportunity to edit it all because I couldn't bear the thought of waiting any longer before releasing it. If you spot any glaring errors, please let me know. I understand many of you may have forgotten what's happened over the last few chapters so I apologise if you have to skim through them again to refresh (I have long given up trying to write summaries).
> 
> Please don't hesitate to shout your thoughts out to me on whichever platform you prefer.
> 
> More importantly, enjoy.
> 
> xox

Clarke had dedicated most evenings that week to sprucing up the London house in preparation for her mother and sister’s arrival. It had felt strange to return there after the months that had passed since her father’s death. It was strange, in a sense, because she had never properly developed an affinity to the building. It had always felt hollow in comparison to their home back in the states. Maybe it was because she associated the house with the times her father had been absent from her youth. He would often spend long periods of time in the London house to the point that, when Clarke finally did visit, she wondered what all the fuss had been about. It was spacious and comfortable, sure. But it wasn’t _home_. She knew that was why Abby held her reservations about leaving Tennessee but, as Madi had said, they couldn’t stay there forever. Arcadia was moving on and they needed to be a part of that.

It must have hit about half past ten at night before Clarke eventually allowed herself to open a bottle of wine from the cellar and kick back in front of the fire, a pad of paper in her lap. She put on a few of her dad’s compositions on the speakers in the background and stared into the flames. The last month or so had been exhausting in many ways, that was for sure. As she watched the colours blend into dazzling shades, Clarke reflected on how much had changed since the last time she had sat in that exact spot. It was almost impossible to fathom.

Things were, by no means, easier than they had been before. If anything, the grief continued to work its way through Clarke’s body just like the blood pumping through her veins. Now, it was more just a part of her. There were those quiet moments though, where everything around her seemed to still, and she would recall the anger, guilt and heartache. She expected her chest to threaten to collapse as it often had before but it didn’t. Instead, she found she could observe the sensations as if they were performers onstage. She still felt what they wanted her to but she felt it from a distance. She was a spectator. No longer was she playing centre-stage with them.

The thought brought her a sense of comfort. Maybe she was as tough as her father believed she was.

Of course, developing thicker skin wasn’t all that had changed since the passing of her father. There was the violinist; the violinist with hands that could bring Clarke to her knees in whatever way they liked. Whether it was through touching the strings of a violin, or whether it was through touching Clarke, it didn’t matter, she did it all with unrelenting control and unyielding passion.

Drawing her lip underneath her teeth, Clarke released a quiet breath, her head tilting back against the sofa. All it took was one thought of Lexa and she had weakened, thoughts of her resilience dissipating immediately. She liked where they were and she knew she wasn’t alone in that. Still, she had precautions, and it was likely that Lexa did too. More than likely. Yet, she couldn’t help but see something of a surety behind the piercing green that watched her so intently. As she thought about it, she felt something heated whip her stomach.

The upcoming week for both of them was busy. They’d agreed to see each other at the weekend to go through potential pieces for Lexa to play at the masquerade. In the meantime, between her other numerous duties, Clarke was shutting herself away in the workshop to work on the masks for the auction. This was the first moment she’d really allowed herself to just breathe but even when she did breathe, her lungs were tight. Her skin was hot and it wasn’t because of the fire.

Clarke hadn’t felt something so deeply for years and, even then, had it ever felt like this? She’d drawn the flames in Lexa’s eyes on a fresh sheet of paper. They burned harder than anything she’d ever seen before and she was branded and, as her charcoal left the paper, she realised she’d been branded for a very long time.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“So, any particular thoughts on what I should play?”

Clarke resumed her favoured spectator’s seat in the practice room and leaned back, biting her lip. After a prolonged moment of thought, she finally opened her mouth to respond, “Nope.”

Lexa glanced up, eyebrow raised, continuing to apply the resin to her bow, “Oh, good. Here I was thinking you’d make it difficult for me.”

“Come on, Lexa, you know I’m not musically minded.”

She looked very much as if she might disagree but thought better of it and placed down her bow, “Okay. What mood do you want to set?”

“Well, the orchestra will be tackling all the classics like, you know, the Khachaturian masquerade suite, pretty much everything by Tchaikovsky, and probably some Shostakovich. You know, all the waltzy stuff.”

“Ah, yes. Waltzy stuff.” Lexa repeated, running a cloth over her strings with the ghost of a smirk on her lips, “That’s my favourite genre… and here I was thinking that you weren’t musically minded.”

“You’re funny.” Clarke offered a gentle but salty smile, “I want you to play something that’s different to all of that. Something that, I don’t know, slaps people in the face. In a good way.”

Lexa seemed to be struggling to keep it together, “Right.” She nodded, the amusement set deep in her eyes, “Keep going. You’re onto something.”

“Somebody used sass instead of milk on their cereal this morning?” Clarke’s lips were pursed, fighting hard against the humour. Lexa simply graced her with a chilling smile. “Alright, look, masquerades are fun. Waltzing is apparently fun. People will be having fun, if all goes to plan, but I’ve always been a sucker for a touch of darkness.”

Lexa was unsurprised by this.

“And there’s something about your music, something about you, that makes darkness appealing. Now, I’m not asking you to play _Danse Macarbe_ or anything. That might be a bit _too_ slapstick but, well, you know.”

She inclined her head in response, carefully tuning-up, and losing the sarcasm on the way as she twisted the pegs with precision. She said nothing further as warmed up her instrument, fingers flowing effortlessly over the strings. Barely aware of the silence that had befallen Clarke, Lexa lost herself to routine, her features focused, her stance controlled.

Some minutes passed before Lexa’s bow halted against the strings as she concluded her warm-up. She often avoided the use of words when playing and it wasn’t any different this time around. Pale eyes flickered to Clarke’s to seek her careful attention, which she had unknowingly been subject to since the moment she’d touched the violin. Recognition filtered over the blonde’s features as talented fingers touched the strings once more. It was a well-known piece, so such an expression wasn’t shocking to the violinist. She took some liberties with the melody, using versatility to her advantage. 

The varied techniques Lexa was required to use had been mastered thoroughly and she drew the artist deeper, her body telling the story as much as the music itself. It possessed everything Clarke sought; entertainment, mostly. It was the sort of music that would smirk at its listeners if it could, as if displaying a glimpse of a private joke. Then, it would change, directed by a tease of darkness. One thing was constant throughout though, and that was the demand to be heard. Beneath the charisma lay power and Lexa carried it all so well.

When she finished, lowering her instrument form beneath her chin, she returned her expectant gaze to Clarke, awaiting judgement.

“What was the piece?”

“ _Csárdás_. A Hungarian folk dance by Vittorio Monti.”

“I see.”

“What are your thoughts?” Lexa asked, softly.

“My thoughts,” Clarke paused, trying to assemble herself, “my thoughts are that you knew exactly what I meant, after all.”

She said nothing, but her lips twitched in quiet affirmation.

A few moments of quiet passed between them before Clarke cleared her throat and reached for her bag, “I also, well, I wondered if maybe you’d play something for me on the piano.”

Lexa inclined her head, moving forwards to take the sheet music in Clarke’s hand. She studied it carefully, eyes flickering slowly back to blue, “This is a song.”

“Yes.” She looked amused, “It is. Lovesong.”

“You’re singing?”

“It’s an arrangement of my dad’s. My mom used to listen to The Cure when I was a kid and I think this one always reminded him of her. She used to play it on her vinyl record player, usually after they’d had a drink. I’m not saying I’ll be performing it or anything because I might not. I just thought we could try it and see how it goes.”

The violinist kept her thoughts to herself, going to set the sheets up on the piano, and taking a seat with hands poised on the keyboard. There was something about Clarke’s demeanour as she stood by the stool, fingers lightly brushing over Lexa’s shoulder. She wasn’t nervous. Nerves were something Clarke rarely had time to show. Yet, there was something in the way she held herself, something almost unsteady. Maybe she was reliving the last time she had sang. She’d sang as her father took his final breaths.

“Ready?” Lexa asked. She nodded, taking a breath as the brunette brought the ivories to life.

Lexa had heard the way the artist could sing. She had watched her perform before along with the rest of Arcadia, but that had been for a crowd. This time was different. Lexa could feel the proximity of their bodies, the intimacy of the way Clarke had positioned herself nearby. She had discarded her proverbial mask, allowing her body to experience the smothered talent she kept hidden in her lungs and it was perfect.

Her voice carried a husk with it as she opened her mouth and immediately, Lexa was taken. It required her entire capacity to maintain concentration on the music before her. Naturally, she tuned into the melody, feeling the depth of Clarke’s voice run over her skin.

And it was over too soon, leaving Lexa breathless. For a couple of seconds, she simply sat with her fingers resting on top of the keys, her chest barely moving.

Clarke sighed, “Sorry, I didn’t warm up or anything, so that could have definitely gone better.”

She tried to answer, but her head was still replaying the sound and her skin was still burning.

“You think maybe I should scrap it?”

“No.” The violinist turned to look at her, clearing her throat, “I don’t.”

“Really?”

Lexa held Clarke’s gaze for a prolonged moment, “Really.”

There was a beat of silence.

“How are you feeling?” It wasn’t the question Lexa expected herself to ask, but she saw something beyond the gentle blue of her eyes. She saw sadness. It begged not to be noticed. Yet, the violinist wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch it. She wanted to touch her.

It seemed Clarke hadn’t been expecting the question either and she left herself beautifully unguarded as she rested one hand on the top of the piano, “What makes you ask that?”

“You don’t like singing.” Lexa opted for the cautious observations.

She shrugged, still seeming to collect her thoughts, “No, I don’t.”

Lexa waited.

“I guess, I guess I feel okay. I never liked singing because I felt it was something others expected of me as a Griffin. Especially back home. You know, music is everything that defines our family and I hated that, particularly because I blamed music for my father’s absence. But you know that about me already.”

“I do.”

“Music has just, it’s just never been my passion and the thing is, the thing is that when I sing, I feel it.” She pressed a hand to her diaphragm, “I feel everything. I feel what music does to people. I feel what it did for my dad. I feel what it does for my mom and my sister.”

“What does it do for you?”

She paused, resting her teeth on her lower lip, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Lexa. Then, she murmured, “Sometimes nothing but, when I let it, sometimes it breaks my heart. Sometimes, it heals it.”

Lexa thought about this for a moment, her eyes drifting down to the keys of the piano, “Music can unlock feelings that nothing else ever could.”

“But doesn’t that frighten you?”

“Yes, and no. When I play music, I am in control. I can control what to play and therefore I can control what to feel,” she turned to face Clarke completely, “but when I hear you sing, when I watch you sing, I am no longer in control. You are, and you make me feel things that both liberate and terrify me.”

“What do I make _you_ feel, Lexa?”

She hesitated, her body falling still, “I don’t know. I don’t know because I’ve never felt it before. Not like this.”

“And how does it feel?” Clarke’s voice was low; husky and inviting.

“It feels like I’m close to you. So close that I–” She stopped herself, taking a steadying breath and shaking her head. The moment was sacred. Too sacred to break. Lexa was open and she was vulnerable.

“It’s okay.” Clarke moved gently, but surely. She was sitting beside Lexa on the piano stool, hand slipping along the keys in search of her. When their fingers interlocked, Lexa gasped sharply, her muscles trembling. She said nothing until she knew exactly what words she wanted to say.

“I’m drawn to you, Clarke. It isn’t just about your voice, although that in itself is incomparable to anything I’ve heard before. It’s about the way you sing. It’s the way your body sways. It’s your eyes when they close when you feel something just a little too deeply. It’s the way you so naturally pull everyone who listens into this state of, of desire. I don’t just mean with your sensuality, although you are no stranger to exhibiting that and the people around you are no strangers to witnessing that, either. This desire. I’ve seen it. I saw it when you sang. I saw the way you allowed people to feel things that ordinarily ought to be forbidden. You make things that should be impossible feel so achievable. Tangible, almost. It’s addictive. I’ve just never really seen anybody embody the emotions they experience through music quite in the way that you do.”

“I have.” Clarke’s voice was soft, still a little husky.

Lexa took a slow breath.

“I felt that way the first time I heard you play, and I still feel it now. But, now, I feel it more so because I know you.”

Lexa pondered this, sitting perfectly still, reminding Clarke of her uncanny ability to appear statuesque.

“Maybe we have grown up in a world that teaches us it is wrong to feel things deeply. Maybe because of that, we find more socially acceptable ways to express our most inner selves. For you, it’s music. For me, it’s art. When we find somebody, who reflects our own thoughts or feelings, it becomes almost impossible not to feel a connection.”

Finally, the violinist nodded, “I think you’re right, and I think that, if you feel comfortable doing so, you should perform at the masquerade. Show the board that you have more power than they could ever hope to have because you know how to connect with people in ways they never could.”

“You think?” She bit her lip, drawing Lexa’s attention to her mouth, albeit briefly, before she returned her gaze back to Clarke’s.

“I do.”

The artist nodded, “Alright. Will you play for me?”

“I am no pianist, Clarke, but if that’s what you want, then of course.”

She squeezed her hand in quiet gratitude, moving her head to rest against Lexa’s shoulder. For a moment, the two sat close, Lexa’s arm winding around Clarke’s waist. When the time came to make their exit, Lexa slid her fingers to rest on the back of Clarke’s neck, marking their farewell with a kiss.

.::.::.::.::.::.

The arrival of her mother and sister brought with it a sense of unity. Solace, almost. Clarke hadn’t realised quite how isolated she had been in the months since she had accepted her position at the head of the board. It was like she stood solitary before an army of suits and briefcases, battling her way through overpaid men with nothing but a canvas and brush. It was willpower alone that had brought her to stand atop the hill. Sure, there were still mountains ahead, but she didn’t have to climb them alone. Not anymore.

Abby and Madi were exhausted from their travels. They’d initially planned to go out to dinner that night to celebrate their reunion, but a glass or two of wine later, the Griffins were sprawled out on the settee in front of the low-burning fireplace.

“Do you both want to take a rain-check on dinner tonight? Order in instead?” Clarke asked, finishing off her drink, already preparing another for herself.

Madi looked a little resentful at the idea of missing a night in London at first, but she quickly responded to the weight of her limbs against the couch, “Only if we get to go out tomorrow.”

Clarke smiled, shrugging lightly, “Sounds good to me. Mama?”

Abby offered a weary smile, “I can work with that. What are we having?”

“The world is your oyster. Well, London is, at least.”

“And I hate oysters.” Madi reached for her drink, “I could eat anything right now. But, really, I think I need pizza.”

“I think we probably all need pizza.”

“It is fundamental.”

Clarke opened up the app on her phone, taking little time in selecting her favoured restaurant. Once the device had been passed around and food successfully ordered, Abby glanced over at her eldest daughter, “So, how are preparations for the masquerade going?”

“If you ignore the big brutes who think they run the academy, then they’re going alright.”

“Had any more trouble with them?”

Clarke shrugged, “Constantly, but I’m figuring it out. They’ll sure be excited to see your face.”

“Not as excited as I am to see theirs.” Abby smirked.

“Betcha they’ll shit their pants.” Madi offered, receiving a disapproving glare from her mother. She quickly looked at her glass in surprise, as though the wine had spoken on her behalf.

“Oh, I hope so.” Clarke grinned, “I asked Murphy to organise the mask auction but he said he’d be too drunk to know what he’s doing.”

“That’s nothing new.” Abby sighed, “That boy is never sober.”

“Even when he is, he still doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“So, who’s doing it instead?” She asked.

Clarke quirked an eyebrow, mischievously, “I suggested to Charles Pike that he might like to do it. Can’t imagine why he didn’t take me up on the offer.”

Abby laughed, quietly, “Far too tempting for a man of his calibre to turn down, surely.”

“That’s what I said. So, I’ve reminded Murphy just how much his ass owes me and he’s agreed to it in the end. Even though he hates public speaking.”

“Which is surprising considering how much he likes to be the centre of attention.”

“Exactly.”

“So, everything is in place?”

“Pretty much.” Clarke nodded, “All the invitations are out, the music and entertainment has all been organised. All that’s left is for us to buy some suitable attire.”

Madi perked up at this, “We’re going shopping?”

Clarke winked at her sister, “Damn straight, kid.” She glanced back to her mother, “And everything’s in place for the charity?”

“Yes. So far, so good.”

“So, how are you feeling, Mads? Glad to be here, finally?”

The youngest Griffin nodded, “Sure am. Finally. It’s only taken, I don’t know, how many centuries?” She sent her mother a mischievous smirk.

Abby just raised an eyebrow, daring her daughter to proceed. As it happened, Madi chose the smartest option and kept her mouth shut.

The pizza arrived in good time; Clarke felt it was in good time because she was becoming increasingly aware of the lack of lining to her stomach the more wine she consumed. Some of her tension began to subside as she sat with her family, talking idly. They weren’t speaking of anything consequential, which was a relief in itself. Clarke felt like most of her discussions in Arcadia nowadays always seemed to have a focus. With the board, she had to be on her guard, plan what she was going to say and think carefully about how she would say it. With her increasing workload, she’d barely had the chance to take those few moments of respite with her friends, including Lexa. So, she had a little more wine.

Madi was the first to push her pizza box away, turning her face to the ceiling as she lounged her head back against the arm of the settee. Clarke could pinpoint the moment her sister’s thoughts altered from tame gossip. She saw the phantom shadows passing over her eyes.

“Sup, kid?” She asked, nudging Madi with her foot.

“What? Nothing.” She shrugged in response, subtly glancing over to their mother.

“You don’t need to keep quiet on my account, sweetheart.” Abby never missed a trick.

“You’ll think I’m dumb for saying it.” She sighed, eventually caving into the silence that met her, “I just, well, I just wondered how things would be different if Dad was still here. You know, with us moving here and everything.”

Abby concealed whatever emotion she experienced at her daughter’s quiet remark, “It’s hard to say.”

“But, then, would we even be here if he was? Would _he_ be here?”

Clarke bit her lip, eyes drifting over to their mother.

There was a moment of strained quiet before Abby eventually shrugged, “Sometimes, I feel his presence more now he’s gone than I did when he was alive.”

They lapsed into silence. Clarke considered her current position. Jake’s absence had affected them each differently. For her though, she knew that if her position was to be worth anything, her family would always have to be worth more.

.::.::.::.::.::.

“I honestly don’t know what possesses me to agree to participate in these things.”

Lexa observed her tutor over the rim of her whiskey glass. The Orion was quieter than usual and, for once, she found herself appreciative of the exam period, if not a little perplexed at her ever-growing workload. Anya had barely spoken a word since they’d arrived, mostly due to a preoccupation with her phone.

“These things being what?” She asked, watching as the musician abandoned her device on the surface of the table, “Technology? Consuming alcohol at a public venue?”

“Those, too. No, the conductor of Arcadia’s symphony orchestra has conveniently sprained his wrist.”

“I see.” Lexa awaited further information, but it appeared Anya was forgetting to use her words today, “So, I’m assuming, by the speed you’ve just downed your drink, that it isn’t actually convenient.”

“Very astute of you, Woods.” She returned, “No, it isn’t damn convenient. I’ve just been informed that they need a step-in.”

“For what? The masquerade?”

“Yes, and who is it that they’ve asked to step in? Who is the unfortunate sod who will be organising a bunch of arrogant, over-educated twats?”

“I’m going to guess that it’s you.” Lexa managed to keep her expression of amusement at a minimum, but Anya was too busy being bitter to really notice, anyway.

She confirmed Lexa’s assumption with a salty smile.

“Ah,” Lexa took a sip of her drink, “and I’m guessing you said yes.”

“I did, because I’m clearly an idiot.”

“Clearly.”

Anya exhaled, “Clarke owes me for this.”

“Don’t blame her for your mistakes.”

Anya rolled her eyes, “Stop taking her side just because she’s your girlfriend.”

“If Clarke was here to have a side to take, I’m sure she would defend her position perfectly without my support.”

“So, this is you confirming she’s your girlfriend?”

The violinist didn’t rise to the bait, “As if it would interest you if she was.”

“Rude to assume I don’t take an interest in your life.”

“So, this is you confirming you _do_ take an interest in my life?”

The tutor wafted her hand, dismissively, “No, I’m bored already.”

Lexa simply arched an eyebrow, “Back to the matter at hand, then. I didn’t realise you had such passionate views about conducting. Or, rather, _not_ conducting.”

“I don’t see the appeal in standing there, pretending that waving my arms about erratically actually means something.”

Lexa stifled a smirk, “I am curious, though. Will you be wearing a tailcoat?”

Her remark was received with an unnerving glare, and Lexa felt it was probably best to keep quiet from that point onwards.

Eventually, Anya was able to engage in the primary aim of their outing, which was to discuss Lexa’s next performance, “It’s your final graded performance of the year. It seems a little pointless to me considering you should really be one of the people sitting on the panel. Your skill is far beyond their limited capabilities. Then, you’ve just got your final assignment and you’ll be all done, possessing your fifty-eighth degree or something.”

“I suppose that mysterious package next to you will be what I have to perform?”

Anya raised an eyebrow and picked up the brown envelope beside her, “It would be less mysterious if you just opened the bloody thing. Here.” She passed it across the table and leaned back to indulge in another prolonged gulp of alcohol.

Lexa scanned the title with interest, “I see.”

“I’m sure the board thought they might intimidate you, as if you probably haven’t already danced your way through the _24 Caprices_ thousands of times before.”

“Admittedly, Paganini is really quite intimidating.”

“Yes, but so are you. So, of course, it’s _that_ one they want you to play.”

_Op. 1: No. 24 in A minor._

“Of course.” Lexa sighed, quietly slipping the sheet music into her bag, “Well, I guess I won’t be seeing daylight for some time.”

“What would you need to see that for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Vitamin D, maybe?”

Anya shrugged, “Overrated.”

“Is it?”

“All the Vitamin D you need is in the Vitamin D string.” Anya waited for some sort of commendation but received none whatsoever, “No? Tough crowd.”

“Dreadful. Even for you.”

“I contest that.”

“Well, on that note–”

“Was the note a D?”

Lexa couldn’t help but allow a pitying smile, “Yes, well done.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, I really ought to be heading off. I need to organise my schedule for the next few weeks.”

“Great way to spend an evening.”

She rose to her feet, “Exactly, and if I’m not mistaken, Raven Reyes has just walked through the door. Maybe you can spend _your_ evening telling her all about what tailcoat you’ll be wearing at the masquerade.”

“And you accuse me of being humourless.” Anya quipped.

“Yes, except that wasn’t a joke. Bye, Anya.” Lexa wasted little time in gathering her bag and jacket, and made her way to the exit, sparing Raven a polite greeting before she left.

As predicted, Lexa’s schedule was packed tighter than it had been for some weeks. Between preparing for her final performance, the masquerade, and teaching the youngsters, she found herself with barely enough time to eat and sleep, let alone tend to any part of her social life. It was apparent that Clarke was facing similar difficulties with her own routine. They hadn’t seen each other properly for several days, nor barely even conversed. So, it came as somewhat of a surprise (although, retrospectively, perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising) to see her sitting outside the practice room cross-legged on the floor. She was scratching away at a small sheet of canvas paper.

“Don’t tell me you’ve now developed the power of knowing my schedule before even I do.” Lexa slowed her footsteps as she approached the door.

Clarke glanced up with a small smile, “Although that is not beyond my capabilities, I do have access to all of the booking systems online.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to text me?”

“Absolutely not. By the time you’d have replied, I could have already accessed your entire practice schedule.”

Lexa opened the door, quirking an eyebrow in amusement, “Okay, well, wouldn’t it have at least been more socially acceptable just to text me?”

Clarke shrugged, standing up and following her into the practice space, “Where’s the fun in that?”

It took the violinist a few moments to set up and she did so in silence, as was her custom. Amongst the quiet, she found herself experiencing the familiar calm Clarke so easily gave to her. It had been too long. Just watching her settle herself in the armchair, tying her hair up in a loose bun, was enough to make her recall all she’d been missing.

“How have you been?”

“Moody. Sleep-deprived. You?”

Lexa knew the feeling, “Same. Is everything set for the masquerade?”

“I think so. I just can’t wait for the damn thing to be over at this point.”

“I was wondering,” Lexa occupied herself with applying resin to her bowstrings, “what will you be wearing?”

Clarke’s pencil stilled against the paper, “As in, what will I be wearing or what will I be _wearing_?” She emphasised the last part of her sentence with heavy suggestion, even accompanying it with an eyebrow quirk. It was an implication that Lexa found it all too difficult not to dwell on.

“I’m not opposed to you answering both.” She still didn’t look up from her bow.

“I’m planning on wearing a crimson lace dress. I’m going to pick it up tomorrow. I have a Colombina mask to match. It’s crimson with a gold outline.” She paused before continuing, “As for what I’ll be wearing underneath, well, perhaps I’ll share the details with you on the night.”

Lexa swallowed.

“And you?” She asked, “What will you be wearing?”

“Well, that’s my reason for asking. I wondered if you’d like me to wear something complementary.”

“Are you asking me to be your date?” She teased.

“Yes, Clarke. I am.”

The sincerity of her response was disarming and required an acknowledgement of the same nature. With a soft smile, she inclined her head, “I would love to be your date, Lexa. There’s a similar dress to mine in black. I could do you a black and gold Colombina to match. Alternatively, we could go full-on traditional and dress you up in a crimson suit with an Arlecchino. Typically, Arlecchino and Colombina are lovers, but I don’t know how you’d feel about people calling you ‘Sir’ all evening.”

Lexa shrugged one shoulder, lightly, “There are worse things to be mistaken for. Perhaps I would receive all the privileges of a Sir.”

“You mean, like having pretty young barmaids pour you straight whiskey?”

“Exactly.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow at the small smirk on the violinist’s lips, “Does that get you off?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You’d make a very good Sir.”

“Thank you, madam.” She set about cleaning her violin strings with a duster, “Then again, there’s something seductive about the scandal of two Colombinas going behind Arlecchino’s back and having a secret love affair without him.”

“That’s something saucy I can get behind.”

Lexa laughed, softly, “Which do you prefer the idea of? Me in a lacy dress or me in a tailored suit?”

Clarke considered this, biting down on her lip for a moment before she eventually replied, “That’s like asking me whether I prefer baked camembert or chocolate cake. I love both equally but they are from completely different food groups.”

“So, you’re comparing me to a snack?”

She let her eyes roll deliberately over the brunette, “It’s like you’re just asking me to make a seedy remark.”

Lexa placed her violin beneath her chin, eyes meeting blue with a startling degree of want, “You never need an invitation for that, Clarke. Either way, you let me know what you decide and I will dress accordingly.”

The artist fell silent after that, leaning back in her chair and flipping to a fresh page in her canvas sketchbook. A thoughtful expression quickly occupied her features, but Lexa knew not to look too deeply into that. It was best to leave Clarke to her own devices when she had entered that state. For a while, not a word was exchanged as they both focused on their respective arts. There was a natural flow that passed between them, balanced and uninterrupted. Lexa carried the music with her fingertips, finding herself subject to Arcadia’s finest artist. She knew she was being studied. She had seen the flicker behind Clarke’s occasional glance many times before. Despite the familiarity of it all, the violinist was still not immune to feeling such unnerving exposure. She was at her most vulnerable and at her most powerful when playing, two aspects that Clarke simply could not resist when she was creating art. For whatever reason, it helped keep her skills sharp as she ran her bow over the strings.

There was something about playing for the young blonde that pushed her to perform to her limits. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was playing the presence of Jake Griffin’s daughter. Maybe it was the knowledge that she listened intently, whether she appeared to be doing so or not. Maybe, though, maybe it was more than that. Despite frequently and inaccurately professing her ineptitude when it came to music, the eldest Griffin daughter understood passion. In all of its forms. Her body would respond subtly to the emotion conveyed through the notes, whether consciously or otherwise, rather than the notes themselves. The knowledge that Clarke possessed such a raw connection with passion was frightening for Lexa because she, herself, had been taught to suppress such open displays of feeling. Perhaps Lexa wanted to use the artist’s fearlessness to her own advantage. Or, perhaps she simply liked the way Clarke’s expression altered whenever she was touched by the sentiment of music. There was something about her mouth, the way it curved. Something about her eyes, the way they flickered. Something about her hands, the way they trembled. It was all so slight, so understated, that anybody else could have missed it. She rested her violin and bow atop the piano, taking a slow breath inward.

“Clarke?”

She blinked, her attention snapping to Lexa, almost stunned to be addressed so abruptly despite the fact the violinist’s voice was soft when she spoke.

“I know you have a lot of other commitments right now and I don’t want you to feel pressured to break away from them, especially just for the sake of listening to music. But if you did have an hour spare next Wednesday afternoon, I would love to have you there for my final performance.”

“Yes. Of course.” There was no hesitation in her response. She didn’t even check her schedule.

“Really? With the masquerade so close, I know you’ll still have a lot to prepare.”

She shifted the canvas paper from her lap onto the chair, eyes fixing fully on Lexa’s, “Really. Were you expecting me to say no?”

“I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to say yes with so much certainty.”

She stood up then, taking a few steps closer to the violinist, reaching out and taking her hand, “Lexa, you know by now that I care about the things that matter to you. Just like you care about the things that matter to me. I don’t know why you’d want somebody so unattuned to the finesse of music to be there, but it means a lot that you want me there, anyway.”

Lexa felt a soft scoff fall from her lips, tugging her a little closer, “At some point, Clarke, you’ll realise everybody knows you’re lying when you say you know nothing of music.”

She looked as if she might argue, but Lexa smoothly cut her off, smothering a smirk.

“Ah, the lady doth protest too much.”

This prompted a crease between Clarke’s eyebrows and it seemed she was gearing up for a battle of some description, but she was given little opportunity to execute her attack.

“You think I don’t notice the ways your eyes glaze over when you hear a piece of music that speaks to your soul?” Lexa brushed her thumb tantalisingly over the inside of the artist’s wrist, “You think I haven’t seen the way your body aches to move to a rhythm you find pleasing?” She slid her free hand to her hip, compelling their bodies even closer together.

A short gasp slipped from between Clarke’s lips, a sound that prompted something to stir deep in the pit of Lexa’s stomach.

“I don’t care if you can’t tell me the history of a pentatonic scale. I don’t care if you don’t know how many operas Mozart wrote. The reason I want you there is because you understand music in its most rudimentary form. It is designed to make you feel, and you’ve told me before that it _does_ make you feel. That’s why I want you there. Not to listen for mistakes, to comment on the speed of my spiccato, or the accuracy of my timing. I want to know there’s somebody amongst the judges and the critiques that will hear the music and feel something because of it.”

She swallowed, her throat dry as she spoke, “I don’t even know what spiccato means.”

“Exactly,” Her voice lowered to a murmur, eyes flitting to her mouth, “and it would take all of the fun out of it if you did.”

Clarke’s laugh was gentle and sweet, finalising Lexa’s need to taste the sound as it left her lips. The moment they kissed, Clarke’s body sank against her own, almost becoming malleable beneath her touch. Almost. There was fight still left in her yet. The thought of breaking that resolve was as enticing as it was dangerous. She knew Clarke had been taken off-guard. So often had the blonde played the temptress. So often had she flaunted her confidence, and rightfully so, flattening Lexa’s discipline as if it was nothing more than a crease in her shirt. With that in mind, she also knew they had agreed to take this slow, but the recognition that they’d barely had longer than a few moments just to be alone was enough to feed into the heated desire passing between them. Without warning, the kiss deepened, her hold on Clarke’s hips grew tighter, and she urged her backwards so that the latter’s spine was pressed against the inward curve of the piano. 

Lexa gauged the response, her feet positioned between Clarke’s. She learned quickly that the artist seemed to accept her position trapped between her body and the polished piano’s edge. In fact, judging by the way her fingers clutched the material of Lexa’s shirt, it also seemed that was exactly where she wanted to be.

The magnetic field of her lips was too powerful to break and Lexa had to fight against her instincts not to bite down with force. Despite the evident vulnerability of her position, Clarke seemed to enjoy the impact it had on the violinist. She appeared to like that her feigned innocence had such a destructive effect on Lexa’s self-control. Despite the impassive façade the brunette so easily donned, Clarke could see through her. Behind the hazy blue glow of wanting eyes, there was something of a challenge. A demand, almost. It was as if she _wanted_ Lexa to break. To give up whatever it was that stopped her hands from squeezing her into submission. She must have known that the quiet emission of sound that left her mouth would push Lexa to her limits. She could taste Clarke’s whimper on her tongue and it simply wasn’t enough.

Her fingers wrapped tighter around Clarke’s waist, pulses quickening.

It was getting heavier. Harder to pull away.

Lexa growled.

It was low, almost inaudible, and it was involuntary.

If she didn’t hit the brakes now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep command of her hands. They were begging to feel the skin beneath Clarke’s clothes, her thumbs already running over the waistband to her jeans.

She pulled her head away, trying to salvage whatever self-restraint she could.

Clarke’s lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed and her eyes dark. That look would be branded on the forefront of Lexa’s mind for days. It would haunt her every time she shut her eyelids. A pleasant sort of torture, but a torture all the same.

She tried to communicate something to the artist. She tried to explain why she had to pull away, but all she could do was aim to put a little distance between them, even just to soften the aching of her muscles. Yet, even as she stepped away, even as she separated herself from the young woman before her, she felt each nerve-ending scream.

Clarke was shocked.

There was a beat. It was followed by a plea.

“Don’t walk away from me. Not when you had me right where you wanted me.”

Lexa stalled, eyes flickering back to azure. She checked herself, noting it was more of an instruction than it was a request. Clarke reached forwards to stop the violinist from furthering the void between them, her hand clasping around her wrist. She was waiting, waiting for Lexa to reclaim her control. She considered this for a second at most, before she closed the distance between them once more, disregarding whatever flimsy sense of duty she had left. Contrary to expectations, the brief pause had done nothing to cool the craving. The heat remained rife and demanding.

Her hands returned to Clarke’s waist and it took very little of her strength to hoist her backwards until she landed on the keyboard of the piano, thighs wrapped around her hips. The clash of dissonance that lifted from the keys was a detached chord of a displaced reality. It barely even touched the ears of the catalysts that caused it.

Clarke was distributing most of her weight to her legs, keeping them locked around Lexa’s middle. Despite the sturdy structure of the piano that they so mercilessly misused, it still wasn’t indestructible. And it wasn’t cheap. Of course, that was probably the last thing on Clarke’s mind. It was technically her piano, after all, and if she didn’t care, then Lexa couldn’t bring herself to do so either.

So, she picked up where they’d left off, her hands falling back to Clarke’s waistband. She was relearning the curves and grooves of her torso, pushing her thumbs into the crease of her core, coaxing that little whimper from her mouth again.

Ordinarily, Lexa would wish to take her time tracing her fingers over Clarke’s body but, in that moment, time was not a luxury they could afford. The minutes they shared were borrowed but Lexa was prepared to pay whatever debts she accumulated later as long as she could taste the skin beneath her jaw. Clarke’s head fell backwards and Lexa reflexively moved to catch it, weaving her hand into what was left of her dishevelled bun. Her hair slipped between her fingers like honey. Experimentally, she gave it a tug.

They had teased each other before. They had played with their attraction under laser lights, their chests pounding to synthesised beats. This was hardly the first time they’d explored deeper levels of intimacy when driven by lust. But this time was different. They were sober and, yet, Lexa had never felt quite so intoxicated. It wasn’t just about her physical appeal. It was the way she looked at her during those moments of companionable silence. It was about the way she was always so attuned to Lexa’s presence, even when consumed by her own tasks. It was the smaller giveaways. The ones that a less perceptive person might bypass.

She squeezed Clarke’s thighs a little harder.

The desperation in her strained moan pushed Lexa to slide her hands just beneath the hem of her top. The brunette caught herself thinking that the article was something of an inconvenience but it was the one barrier keeping her in check. However, when she skimmed her palm over Clarke’s naked hipbone, it elicited a response that only prompted her to imagine what it would feel like to discard that barrier. To feel the softness of her stomach. The prominence of her ribs. The heat of her skin. The artist was biting down on her own lip, firm enough to leave indents, but judging by the way she clutched Lexa closer, she wasn’t averse to the discomfort it caused.

The boundaries were blurring.

She raised her head, meeting Clarke’s gaze directly. She was aware she hadn’t spoken a word since they’d stepped into the borders of this new territory, and she knew they had to have some kind of agreement before she took this any further. But she didn’t need to look beyond Clarke’s eyes, beyond the exposed appetency shaping her parted lips, to read the nature of her thoughts.

Slowly, the artist guided Lexa’s hand upwards, the material of her top riding with the flow. She understood. She resumed authority once more, carefully peeling the fabric away from Clarke’s body and over her head. Lexa’s eyes flickered to the paler stretch of skin of her torso and she felt her chest throb. The top was strewn aside, half hanging over the edge of the piano stool.

Lexa wasted little time in continuing the path of her hand, using her other arm to wrap around the small of her back, pulling her closer. She moved with precision, deliberately sliding her fingertips over Clarke’s diaphragm, savouring the shallow stutters of her lungs.

Her nails grazed beneath the underwiring as she did so, taunting her with the promise of pleasure. She traced the pattern of the article until she reached the clasp, unhooking it with a quick snap of her fingers.

The hum that left Clarke’s lips was inebriating and she rolled her head backwards as Lexa slipped her hand under the thin padding. She flexed the muscles in her hand, a low breath escaping her as the artist’s spine arched in response.

“ _Fuck,_ Lexa.” Despite the gritty nature of the word, it sounded surprisingly eloquent as it tumbled over Clarke’s tongue, and maybe it had the effect it did because it was coupled with her name. She seemed surprised at herself, the colour rising to her cheeks as Lexa fixed her attention on her mouth. The brunette wanted to evoke that reaction again.

And again.

In an attempt to draw Lexa away from her little triumph, Clarke’s fingers requested permission to return the favour, brushing the buttons of her shirt. She wanted to level the field. She wanted this to be mutual. Silently, Lexa nodded her affirmation. It was only fair. She was two fasteners undone, feeling Clarke’s hands tremble as they worked. She couldn’t determine whether the tremor marked anticipation or nerves. To ease her, Lexa brushed her knuckles along the underside of her jaw. It seemed to help. Clarke became surer of herself, her eyes following the slow reveal of olive skin. She seemed to have completely forgotten about her previous exclamation, focusing instead on what she planned on doing once she had removed the offending item of clothing before her.

Lexa watched her intently, her breathing caught somewhere in the depths of her chest. It hit her suddenly how long it had been since she’d allowed somebody this close. Clarke glanced upwards, astutely observing an uncertainty behind her eyes. The moment she saw it, she hesitated, “Lexa–”

“– _Lexa?_ ”

They froze, hearts pounding.

The voice behind the door was muffled.

“ _Lexa, is everything okay? Are you done?_ ”

“I – yes! Yes, just give me a minute.”

Clarke seemed impressed at Lexa’s ability to speak, let alone the way she managed to efficiently swoop her off the piano ledge and onto the floor. She just hoped the thick unsteadiness of her tone wasn’t too blatantly obvious to the musician waiting on the other side of the door. Quickly, she handed Clarke’s top back to her, managing to button up her own shirt with a speed fuelled by adrenaline.

They said nothing further as they gathered their belongings, Lexa crossing the span of the floor with her violin case over her shoulder. Clarke’s appearance was significantly more disrupted than her own and, with that in mind, she pulled the artist to stand behind her as she opened the door, concealing what evidence she could.

“Harvey, sorry. I didn’t realise the time.”

The young man shrugged, hoisting his tuba case through the door, “Don’t worry about it. I’m the same at the minute, what with our final performances coming up next week.”

Lexa nodded, “Thanks, it won’t happen again.”

He noticed Clarke as they stepped past each other and he adjusted his glasses with the back of his hand that was clutching his music, “Clarke Griffin. Wow. Hi.”

She managed to force a grin, “Guilty.”

Harvey seemed at a loss as to what to say next and he continued to fumble with the music in his hand, “You’re not who I expected to see.” It was an odd thing to say, but Clarke didn’t seem to mind. She was likely just grateful Harvey hadn’t commented on the suspicious ruffle of her hair or the rumples in her clothes.

Usually, she would have no problem in striking up easy conversation with any stranger she bumped into, but her mind was otherwise deeply occupied.

“Yes, she gets a kick out of surprising people.” It wasn’t quite up to Clarke’s standard of conversation, but it was all Lexa had to offer in replacement.

Fortunately, Harvey had little experience in the social department so he didn’t seem to pick up on the unspoken cues that were laid out before him.

“Wow.” He said again.

Clarke was slowly recovering and she found the ability to grant him a charming smile, “Good luck in your final performance, Harvey. Hope you smash it.”

Lexa watched in mild amusement at the way his cheeks darkened, “Thanks. I, uh, hopefully I don’t smash the tuba or anything, though.”

“Yeah, they’re expecting brass not percussion, after all.”

It took Harvey a moment to accept Clarke had made a joke but when the realisation sank in, he laughed, adjusting his glasses once more, “Right.”

“Anyway, we’d better leave you to it. Be sure to say hi if we run into each other again.”

“Really? I mean, yeah. Cool. I will. Bye, Clarke.” He waved awkwardly with the sheet music still clutched in his hand, “Bye, Lexa. See you soon. Good luck.”

“You too, Harvey.”

“Bye.” He repeated before shuffling his way into the practice room.

The transition between their previous activity and speaking to Harvey had been quick and unexpected. Clarke waited until they had walked a little way down the corridor before she caught Lexa’s elbow, slowing their pace, “Lexa?”

She turned to look at her, her mind still somewhere in the practice room with Clarke’s half-naked body pressed against her chest.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just glad Harvey called out instead of walking straight into the room. Are _you_ okay?”

“Yes.” She toyed with her thoughts for a moment before proceeding, “I, I don’t know how I’m going to word this exactly but I just wanted to make sure nothing happened back there that you didn’t want or, or that you weren’t ready for, did it?”

Surprise flickered across her features and she stopped walking altogether, “What do you mean?”

“Before. When I was, you know, when I was undoing your shirt.” It sounded as if she hadn’t fully finished her sentence but she was too flustered to continue.

Lexa thought back to Clarke’s hesitation and inclined her head, slowly, “I was the one who lifted _you_ onto the piano.”

“Yes, but I was the one who stopped you from walking away in the first place.”

“The only reason I walked away was because I was finding it harder and harder not to strip you where you stood.”

She could see her ears heat up beneath the wisps of her blonde hair, “And I wanted you to. God, I wanted you to.” She lost herself for just a second before she recalled her point once again, “What I’m saying is that I don’t want you to force yourself to feel ready for me to do the same to you.”

Automatically, Lexa ran her thumb over the back of Clarke’s hand, “Clarke,” she began, “if I seemed uncertain, it was only because I know we’d agreed to take things slow but, make no mistake, your hands were exactly where I wanted them to be. I would have let you do anything you wanted. I still would.”

Clarke was trying desperately to process the words she’d just heard, the cogs of her mind almost visible behind her eyes, “So, you mean, you feel ready for that? For me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ , Clarke,” she repeated, squeezing her hand in reassurance, “but that doesn’t mean you have to push yourself if you’re not ready for that.”

Clarke let her eyes wander over the span of Lexa’s figure and she clutched her chest, theatrically, “My body is ready.” The deep rasp of her voice encompassed the drama flawlessly, and it gave them both a few seconds respite simply just to laugh, “No, me being weird aside, I do feel the same way. I think maybe it’s a good thing we got the chance to talk about it because I’d hate to have thought I was cajoling you into doing something you weren’t quite prepared for.”

“Clarke, nothing could have ever prepared me for you.” Lexa offered her a wry smile, “I think the realisation struck me, when you were undressing me, that it has been such a long time since I’ve wanted somebody to touch me like that and maybe that’s why I seemed hesitant.”

She nodded in acceptance, “I get that. It’s been a long time for me, too.”

“Can I ask?” Lexa arched an eyebrow, “What was it that you were drawing?”

A small deviant smile tugged at Clarke’s lips as she reached into her bag to pull out her canvas pad, “What else would I have been drawing?”

Her eyes lowered to the image on the paper and she couldn’t help but laugh. She found herself standing in pencilled lines, face concealed by a Colombina mask, dressed in a tight-fitted crimson blazer with a black cravat.

“Have I just found your weakness, Griffin?”

The artist simply smirked, “I dare you to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Con Fuoco, Con Grazia: Musical directives meaning "With Fire, With Grace"  
> I have changed the title of the fiction due to very valid suggestions that the Italian title may be misleading for English readers. Although it does take a little of the poetry away from it, I would like people not to be put off from my work due to the initially perceived language.


End file.
